


A Common Misconception

by rotasha



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bisexual Clark Kent, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, idiots to lovers, the period is 2008-2009 but things were a lot more homophobic back then
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28374456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotasha/pseuds/rotasha
Summary: When Bruce Wayne comes out, he accidentally becomes the poster child of bisexuality and realizes his lifestyle of sleeping around needs to come to an end. Clark, being the supportive friend that he is, volunteers to pretend to date him for a year.You know the rest.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 331
Kudos: 434
Collections: DC, Favorite Bruce/Clark





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the comments of my last story [Rachelwythe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachelwythe/pseuds/Rachelwythe) and [Calliope_Soars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliope_Soars/pseuds/Calliope_Soars) suggested fake dating. Took me a while to come up with a semi-plausible scenario.
> 
> This story is set in 2008-2009, which I chose because it’s when I started becoming culturally and politically conscious, and because one of the main things I remember about the time was how much worse homophobia was in those days than it is now. In 2008-2009, I hadn’t yet realized I was a lesbian. It would be at least another year before I even had my first inkling of it and several more before I fully came to terms with my sexuality. But I vividly remember the casual use of “gay” (or worse) as an insult, the debate surrounding Prop 8 and same-sex marriage in general, the lack of representation, and so much more. Writing this story and digging up those memories has been harder than I expected.
> 
> All the homophobic and biphobic rhetoric in this story, which I will try to keep to a minimum, is reflective of what I remember of the time and NOT reflective of my own beliefs.
> 
> With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy the story, I love comments, shoutout to any returning readers, etc. etc.

_ Bruce _

Bruce Wayne had a certain reputation to uphold, and he was constantly aware of this. It was one of the first things he had learned as a child, how to behave in front of others. In those days, it had been simple: saying “please” and “thank you,” not getting his nice clothes dirty, being on his best behavior when his parents had people over, not interrupting his father’s meetings in the study or his mother’s afternoon tea in the garden. And Alfred had always been there to remind him what not to do, to clean up his messes, or to talk him down from a temper tantrum.

These days, things were a bit more complicated. Bruce’s reputation was a constant balancing act. On the one hand, his life had to be interesting enough to distract any curious armchair investigators from looking too closely into his private life and potentially uncovering Batman’s secret identity. But at the same time, he wanted to avoid causing any major scandals that would affect the company, his charity work, and his general social standing, all of which afforded him the means to help more people and bring justice to Gotham. So he drove fast cars, but he didn’t break any traffic laws that would get him pulled over; he lied about having dangerous and exciting hobbies that explained away the many injuries he sustained by night; and he slept around, but not with anyone who would cause him any trouble. He avoided married women, women with a reputation for stirring up drama, and women who expressed an interest in anything more than a one-night stand or casual string of hook-ups.

And he avoided men.

Bruce had known from a young age that he was attracted to both men and women. Going to an all-boys’ private school certainly hadn’t helped the matter. There had been guilty kisses in the locker room, and later, when he was older, fumbling handjobs in bathroom stalls. He enjoyed being with men just as much as he enjoyed being with women. But when he’d come up with the idea to sleep around and earn a reputation as Gotham’s resident playboy so everyone would assume his nights were too busy for him to possibly fill them doing anything else, he’d known instinctively that, as far as anyone in Gotham or the press could know, he  _ only _ slept with women.

That didn’t mean he  _ never _ slept with men. Only that he had to be a hell of a lot more careful about it. Because he wanted a reputation, and he didn’t mind if it wasn’t an entirely positive one, but he didn’t want his sexuality to define him, and he certainly didn’t want the ensuing scandal to affect the precarious house of cards that was his life. Maybe one day Bruce Wayne being bisexual wouldn’t cause a scandal, but he was not yet confident that day had arrived. Because every time a celebrity came out, suddenly them being gay was the only thing anyone could talk about, the only thing anyone cared about. Because look at what was happening in California, where the debate over same-sex marriage had lit a nationwide political firestorm that Bruce wasn’t eager to get swept into when here he was trying to lay low. Every time Bruce read or watched the news, it reaffirmed his decision to remain in the closet.

He stayed the hell away from gay bars, but once in a blue moon he’d go out looking to get laid and someone would catch his eye, and that someone would happen to be a man, and thus would begin the often hours-long song-and-dance of attempting to discern the man’s sexuality, and how amenable said man would be to the idea of sleeping with Bruce Wayne, and whether he was likely to make a scene or go to the press if Bruce made a move. Nine times out of ten Bruce decided it wasn’t worth it and found a woman instead, or else went home alone and took his frustration out on the criminals of Gotham later that night.

But the tenth time, those times when he was almost certain the way a man was looking at him across a dimly lit bar or club wasn’t jealousy or recognition or simply staring off into space, Bruce would make his way over to the man in question, slowly, casually, with plenty of plausible deniability. He’d flash a few smiles at beautiful women who made meaningful eye contact, already thinking in backup plans and contingencies, and he’d situate himself next to the man, leaning casually against a wall or table or counter, drink in hand.

The conversation always started innocent enough. When Bruce noticed the other man had drained his drink, he’d offer to buy him another; though this was a stereotypically flirtatious gesture, if he ever needed to, Bruce could play it off as a billionaire doing a good deed, spreading the wealth a little,  _ I see you’ve finished your drink, I have so much money, I’ll buy you a new one _ . If the man took him up on it, they’d talk a little more at the bar. Plenty of eye contact, standing a little too close, maybe another drink or two, and if the mood was right Bruce would invite him to take their conversation outside, offer a cigarette, offer a ride, offer whatever the other man was interested in.

Sometimes Bruce ended up driving home alone. Sometimes he didn’t.

He knew it was risky every time he did it, which was why he usually didn’t, went for months at a time sleeping only with women. He liked sleeping with women, liked women in general; it wasn’t like it was any trouble, being with them, it wasn’t like he felt deprived. Meanwhile, any of the men he brought home with him could go straight to the press, or the internet, and maybe no one would believe them, but if enough of them said something, if word got out…

But Bruce had always been a risk-taker, and it felt like such a shame to suppress this part of himself because of what society would think.

In the end, it wasn’t a scandalized straight man Bruce had misread who ratted him out, or one of the men he’d slept with going to the tabloids for their five minutes of fame.

In the end, it was a grainy cell phone video on the internet, Bruce Wayne pressing another man into the passenger door of his car; this one had been particularly forward and neither he nor Bruce had wanted to wait until they got back to Wayne Manor before shoving their tongues down each other’s throats. Bruce hadn’t been as careful as usual, wasn’t in the mood for caution; he thought he’d parked his car in an inconspicuous location.

Not inconspicuous enough, evidently.

The video spread faster than Bruce’s publicist could get it taken down. The reporters came soon after, flooding his executive assistant’s inbox with interview requests, waiting outside the gates of Wayne Manor or on the sidewalk outside Wayne Enterprises’ Gotham headquarters, asking everyone who’d ever known or been seen with him for a comment. Bruce was used to dodging the paparazzi, but they hadn’t been this incessant since his parents’ deaths, and he’d had Alfred to protect him back then.

This time, all Alfred could do was draw the curtains shut and denounce the reporters outside in his uppity accent: “Really, don’t these people have anything better to do, don’t they have any sense of propriety, isn’t there a shred of common decency left in this world.” He was, as always, unwavering in his support of Bruce. He’d known Bruce slept with men and women, of course he’d known, but they’d never talked about it, except once, when Alfred had first discovered it – Bruce hadn’t ever figured out how – and he’d told a teenage Bruce that “there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that and don’t listen to anyone who tells you otherwise.” They still didn’t talk about it, but Bruce knew if they did, Alfred would say the same thing, along with a few choice words about how it was no one else’s business what he did or with whom and Alfred would tell those sorry excuses for reporters where they could shove their cameras if Bruce wanted him to. And Bruce would appreciate the sentiment, but he also knew he needed to take care of this one on his own.

At first he hoped ignoring the reporters might make them go away, that they’d lose interest after a while and turn their attention to some other celebrity who’d done something more interesting, but it had been a hollow wish. Bruce had spent all those years building up his reputation as a casanova, sleeping with every consenting woman in Gotham and the surrounding cities. Being caught with a man – with the implication being that he was gay and had been faking it the entire time, because who had ever heard of someone being equally attracted to men  _ and _ women – was the biggest scandal the city had seen in years, and that was saying something.

Working with his publicist, Bruce agreed to one of the dozens of interview requests that had come through, with the host of a liberal talk show who Bruce trusted to treat the issue tactfully.

In the days leading up to the interview, Bruce slowly came to terms with his situation, with the fact that he could no longer keep this part of himself a secret. The damage was done; people knew he wasn’t straight and were already making their own assumptions. He could ignore the situation, leave people to speculate, leave their inaccurate theories to gain steam and legitimacy, or he could set the record straight. He didn’t know which would be worse for the company, worse for his charity work, worse for his social standing. But in this case, unlike usual, he felt compelled to tell the truth. He could let the world believe many things about him – chief among them that he had nothing to do with Batman, a secret he would take to his grave – but letting them believe he was gay instead of explaining that he was bisexual was pointless and would only lead to confusion that he didn’t want to have to deal with.

He hadn’t wanted to come out now, or any time soon, but the world had never much cared what he wanted. Apparently it was time.

* * *

_ Clark _

The  _ Daily Planet _ ’s offices were a mess. They’d moved to a smaller office space after the latest round of layoffs; there were cardboard boxes everywhere and everyone was on edge, wondering if they would be next. Lois had sent out dozens of applications to other national newspapers, “Just in case,” she’d told Clark, “And you should too.” But Clark couldn’t imagine leaving.

At least they had it better than the hundreds of local newspapers across the country that were already struggling to adapt to the internet before the recession. At least Clark and Lois were two of the  _ Daily Planet _ ’s top reporters. Clark’s Superman articles were some of the best performing on the  _ Daily Planet _ ’s website, and Lois was a Pulitzer finalist the year before. Perry would have to be crazy or desperate to let either of them go, and he’d told them as much.

Still, Clark spent his working hours stewing in the fog of anxiety that crept between the cubicles of the  _ Planet _ ’s new offices like an airborne pathogen. Even though Clark felt relatively confident in his continued employment, he couldn’t help but worry. About his coworkers who were newer to their jobs and didn’t have the years of service he or Lois or Cat or Jimmy did to give them some semblance of security. About his parents back home in Smallville, who wouldn’t fully open up to Clark about their financial troubles but who were definitely struggling. About the world at large, the unrest he could feel in the air, on the news, in the streets.

All of this chaos, on top of the usual stresses of Clark’s hectic double life, had the usually unshakable journalist-slash-superhero feeling unmoored. He couldn’t get too comfortable at the  _ Daily Planet _ ; even though he was a good journalist, he was also notoriously unreliable (a side effect of regularly jetting off to save the world in the middle of the workday) and he’d seen plenty of people laid off for less over the past few months. If he lost his job at the  _ Planet _ , he might not be able to afford to stay in Metropolis, where Superman was needed the most. He wouldn’t be able to send money back to his parents to help them stay afloat. If he kept his job, he still had to worry about how he and the rest of the dwindling  _ Planet _ staff would cover the final months of the election and the first months of a new presidency when they were already stretched thin.

And then there was this business with Bruce. Clark hadn’t tried to talk to him about it; he got the feeling Bruce didn’t want to talk about it, if his radio silence on the matter was anything to go by. Clark understood. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel to be outed like that, with the whole world watching. It had been nerve-wracking enough coming out to his parents in college, and to Lois when they’d started dating, and of course both of those conversations had ended as well as they possibly could have, with unconditional acceptance from the three people who mattered most to Clark in the world. That wasn’t anything like the treatment Bruce was receiving.

Clark had read the articles and watched the news segments. He’d wasted hours scrolling through blog posts, forums, and Facebook. Reactions ranged from supportive – cheering Bruce on, telling him to “live his truth” – to homophobic. Most people seemed to assume Bruce was gay and in the closet, that his sexual relationships with women had been either self-delusion or outright lies. Either he was trying to force himself to be straight, or he was paying women to pretend to sleep with him to maintain his reputation. Clark didn’t buy that. The few online commenters who suggested the possibility that Bruce was bisexual were met with skepticism and confusion.

Although they’d never broached the subject of sexuality between them – getting Bruce to share information about his personal life was like pulling teeth – Clark suspected it was far more likely Bruce was bisexual. His attraction to women had always seemed genuine. Truth be told, Clark was a little shocked to learn Bruce was attracted to men at all; he was just so… straight. Though Clark wasn’t really one to talk. Clark showed up even less on the average gaydar than Bruce did, with his button-up shirts and khakis and classic Midwestern charm.

Clark had spent more time than he’d care to admit squinting at the low-quality footage of Bruce and the mystery man – his face was obscured in the video and thus far no one had been able to identify him – leaning into Bruce’s shiny black sports car, kissing like teenagers. Clark, along with everyone else in the world whose sexuality included men, had always found Bruce Wayne attractive, with his sharp cheekbones and jawline and impeccably styled dark hair, those piercing blue eyes and that muscular body. And, before he’d learned they were the same person, Clark had found Batman attractive too: the deep voice, the dark suit, the danger.

Clark’s attraction had thankfully never gotten in the way of his friendship with Batman, and later with Bruce. He was perfectly capable of being just friends with someone he found attractive. Case in point: Lois. Just because they’d broken up, and were now “just friends,” didn’t mean Clark had suddenly stopped finding her attractive. He still thought Lois was beautiful, he just didn’t want a relationship with her that went beyond friendship, and neither did she. And that was exactly the way he felt about Bruce. Any relationship between the two of them would be disastrous. Didn’t mean Clark couldn’t look at Bruce and enjoy the view.

Though he did plenty of looking, being the true friend that he was, Clark spent far more of his time worrying about how Bruce was handling things. It was always a special kind of torture for Clark to watch someone he cared about go through a crisis, knowing there was little he could do to help. He wasn’t even sure he could talk to Bruce about it. Bruce wouldn’t want to discuss something so private; he never did. Sometimes Clark forced him to because he knew it would be good for Bruce, but was this was one of those times or was Clark just desperate to finally have someone to talk to who understood what it was like, being bisexual? Bruce was already the only person in Clark’s life who he could talk to about living a double life; was it fair to put this on Bruce too, if Bruce didn’t want it?

Clark was still thinking this over when he came home from work late Thursday evening. He was working longer hours – they all were – but he’d made sure to get home in time to watch Bruce’s exclusive interview, the first he was giving in the wake of his sexuality scandal. Depending on how Bruce handled the interview, Clark would either reach out to him or he wouldn’t.

He changed into something more comfortable and sat on his sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table, turned on ABC and caught the last two minutes of a reality show, commercials, and then there was Bruce Wayne, looking calm and collected as always. If he was bothered by any of the talk about him, it didn’t show on his face. He was dressed to the nines and looked young, rich, handsome, and very heterosexual.

The interviewer – an up-and-coming talk show host Clark knew by name and face but had never actually watched – didn’t beat around the bush. His first question was about Bruce’s reaction to the leaked video, the one that had started it all.

“Obviously it was a serious breach of privacy,” Bruce said. He sounded appropriately serious but his voice was level; if anyone was watching this expecting hysterics, they were going to be disappointed. “Anyone in the LGBT community, or who has an LGBT friend or relative, will know how important it is to come out on your own terms. Forcing someone out of the closet is a cruel and pointless thing to do.”

“Is that what you’re doing now, then?” the interviewer asked. “Coming out on your own terms?”

“Not entirely my own terms,” Bruce countered. “If it were up to me, this isn’t exactly how I would have wanted it to happen. But I do want to end some of the speculation I’ve seen. The dominant narrative seems to be that I’ve either been lying to myself or lying to the women I’ve been with over the years. Neither of those theories are true. I’m not gay. I’m attracted to men, yes, but I’m also attracted to women. I’m bisexual.”

Clark couldn’t help but smile at Bruce’s admission. He knew it was probably more difficult than Bruce was making it look, and he wished for Bruce’s sake that none of this had happened, but hearing Bruce say those two words live on television brought some small thrill to the small-town Kansas farm boy in Clark, the confused teenager who hadn’t known what to think when he felt the same way about some of the boys in his class as he did about some of the girls. It was the same feeling he’d gotten when he’d first walked into Metropolis University’s LGBT Resource Center as a curious freshman:  _ Oh. More people like me. _

The interview went seamlessly after that, at least as far as Clark could tell. The interviewer asked about the women Bruce had been with, how and when he’d first realized he was bisexual, whether the Wayne Foundation would develop any programs targeting LGBT youth. Throughout it all, Bruce was well-spoken and even-keeled, even when the interviewer brought up some of the insensitive things people had said about him (Clark half-expected Bruce to get up and leave when the interviewer asked, “What would you say to the people who have theorized that your sexuality is a result of losing your parents at such a young age?”, but Bruce didn’t even flinch).

That was what convinced Clark, more than anything else he’d read or seen, that he needed to reach out to Bruce. Sure, Bruce could keep it together for the camera, but if Clark knew him at all – and he liked to think that he knew him quite well – he knew there was so much more underneath the surface that Bruce wasn’t even hinting at on screen. Talking about it would be good for both of them.

He called Bruce up the next day, late enough that he knew Bruce would most likely be awake after a long night of fighting crime.

“Hello?” Bruce answered, sounding way too groggy for a quarter to noon.

“Hey,” Clark said, cutting straight to the chase as he waited in line at the Starbucks down the street from the office. “I watched your interview last night. I thought you might want to— Actually, I thought you probably wouldn’t want to talk, but I thought I’d give you the opportunity.”

“Talk about what?”

Clark rolled his eyes. Typical Bruce, to act like absolutely nothing was wrong and he didn’t know what Clark could  _ possibly _ be referring to. “It seems like you’ve had a rough time of it lately. I know emotional repression is kind of your thing, but venting about your problems to a sympathetic friend can be incredibly cathartic. You should try it. Maybe if you happen to be in Metropolis sometime soon we could grab a drink.”

The ensuing pause lasted so long Clark pulled his phone away from his ear to check that they hadn’t disconnected. Finally, Bruce said, “I don’t think you want to be seen in public with me right now.”

Was Bruce worried people would see them together and assume, because Bruce had just come out as bisexual, that they were…? Clark frowned. It was possible. But he couldn’t avoid seeing one of his closest friends because of what people might think. So he said, definitively, “I don’t care about that.”

Another very long pause before Bruce replied, “I have a meeting in Metropolis next Monday.”

Clark grinned. He counted it as a personal victory every time he convinced Bruce to open up. “I can do next Monday.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone who’s left comments so far. Didn’t realize I had so many bi readers! Lots of love to all of you and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. I think it’ll be a long one.

_Bruce_

The bar Clark had texted him the address to was inconspicuous enough. Standing across the street while he waited for the light to change, regarding the building from the outside, Bruce thought he might even make it through the night without being recognized. On a Monday night, a place like this wouldn’t be crowded; the small groups of people Bruce could see through the bar’s windows looked to be office workers unwinding after a long day, too caught up in their conversations to pay much attention to their surroundings. And it helped that people weren’t typically on the lookout for him in Metropolis, not like they were in Gotham.

He crossed the street, entered the bar, and found Clark waiting for him at a table near the back. He’d saved Bruce the seat facing the wall.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bruce said as he sat down, taking Clark in. He looked like everyone else around them, just an average guy in a white shirt and slacks drinking after work. Bruce was amazed, sometimes, at how well Clark managed to look like he wasn’t Superman. But he looked good. “It’s impossible to find parking in this town.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Clark said with a smirk. He didn’t have a drink on him yet.

“Can I get you anything?” Bruce asked.

“Just a beer.”

Bruce suppressed a roll of his eyes. Clark was always like this when he ordered drinks. He didn’t have any opinions about alcohol, probably because he couldn’t get drunk, so he’d take whatever was cheapest. “We’re at a bar. You’re going to have to be more specific than ‘beer.’”

Clark grinned and shrugged. He was being difficult on purpose. “Surprise me.”

Bruce returned minutes later with a cheap, shitty beer for Clark and an old fashioned for himself. Clark took a long swig and Bruce shook his head at the man’s poor taste.

“Listen,” Clark said, leaning forward with his forearms on the table between them, leaving at most six inches of space between them. He was close enough for Bruce to smell the last traces of his aftershave that had faded throughout the day. Clark always smelled good, probably because it would drive his super senses crazy if he didn’t. And because he didn’t sweat. Bruce was forcibly reminded of all the men he’d had drinks with in the past who’d leaned in close like this. It wasn’t an image he’d ever attached to Clark, although Clark was undeniably attractive. Bruce found he… didn’t hate it.

“Before I force you to talk about your feelings, which you know I’m going to do,” Clark continued, reminding Bruce why he was here in the first place, “I need to be honest with you. I didn’t want to talk about this with you just because I want you to have someone to vent to about it, although that is part of it. I want to talk about it because I…” Clark paused, took a breath, drew back a little as he considered his next words. Bruce frowned. This wasn’t like Clark. Clark had a way with words – he was a journalist, after all – and he always seemed to know what to say. Bruce was intrigued.

“Because I can relate,” Clark finally settled on. “Sort of. I may not know what it’s like to live in the public eye, at least not full time, and obviously that’s a huge part of this, but I am… also bisexual.” His last few words came out in a rush, and it took a moment for them to register. When they did, Bruce felt a bit like how he’d felt when Clark – he was just Superman to him then – had told him his secret identity. The image he had of Clark in his head shifted completely. Clark Kent, journalist. Clark Kent, Superman. Clark Kent, bisexual. “So reading and listening to some of the stuff people have been saying… I get it.”

Bruce kept most of the shock he was feeling off of his face, but he did raise a single surprised eyebrow. “I never would have guessed,” he said, which might not be completely true – he might have guessed eventually, he was quite a good detective – but it was true that, given the evidence he’d had before him, he _hadn’t_ guessed, which was impressive. But how could he have? He had only known Clark to be with women. He’d never seen Clark express interest in a man. As far as Bruce knew, all of Clark’s relationships with men were completely platonic. Like his relationship with Bruce.

“I think that makes this the second time I’ve successfully kept a secret from the World’s Greatest Detective,” Clark said, diffusing the tension between them with an easy joke.

Bruce responded in kind. This back-and-forth, this easy banter, this was familiar. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Please. If either of us has an ego problem, it’s definitely not me.” He broke eye contact with Bruce, looked down at their drinks between them. His voice dropped lower and the tension returned when he asked, “What part of it bothers you the most? Because for me I think it’s the way everyone is making such a big deal of it in the first place.” He frowned, got that look in his eyes that meant he was frustrated with humanity. Bruce never liked Clark looking like that. Clark was supposed to be the optimist. It felt wrong to see him so jaded. “It changes nothing about you. You’re still the same person.”

Although moments ago he hadn’t known Clark to be anything but heterosexual, now that he knew otherwise, Bruce could hear in Clark’s voice that he wasn’t just talking about Bruce. He was also talking about himself. When he asked why someone’s sexuality would matter to anyone else, he was really asking why he had to live in a world where _his_ sexuality mattered, where he had to either keep it a secret or let it be a defining attribute when really it was just a biological fact he had no control over, like his eye color.

Bruce wondered how society had treated sexuality on Krypton, if it was a big deal to them like it was to the people of Earth or if they had treated it like it was just a fact of life. He wondered if things would have been easier for Clark there. He wondered if Clark ever wondered that.

As for Bruce, he knew exactly which part of it upset him the most, though he kept his tone carefully neutral when he said it: “Probably the theory that it’s a result of my childhood trauma.”

Clark’s gaze flicked up to his, and Bruce didn’t miss the concern there, but Clark knew better than to dig into the issue of childhood trauma with Bruce. Instead he said, “I thought you addressed that really well in your interview. And the questions about your sexual history as well. Funny how you sleeping around wasn’t as much of a problem when everyone thought you were only sleeping with women.”

“Only a problem for the women who slept with me,” Bruce pointed out. “And now on top of the media painting them as sluts for sleeping with someone like me, they’re all getting questions about whether they ‘suspected’ I was also sleeping with men, and whether they still would have wanted to have sex with me had they known.”

The majority of the women the press was hounding refused to comment on the matter; the famous ones were used to men with cameras following them around and knew how to handle themselves, while the non-famous women he’d slept with didn’t want anything to do with Bruce’s scandal. Bruce’s habit of only sleeping with women who wouldn’t stir up drama had paid off.

The few women who did have something to say were surprisingly defensive of Bruce. “All I can tell you is that he’s definitely not gay,” one woman, who’d asked to remain anonymous, told a reporter. “Trust me.” Bruce’s favorite was the mixed martial artist he’d slept with years ago whose only answer to any question about Bruce Wayne was, “Please quote me on this: Go fuck yourselves.”

Only one of Bruce’s old flings had anything bad to say about him, at least in public. She’d seemed nice enough when Bruce had met her, in his early days of sleeping around. He hadn’t known back then to avoid reality stars, no matter how nice they seemed. She’d given him nothing but trouble since, and now was apparently her time to shine. She talked to anyone who would listen about how she’d “known something was off about Bruce from the start,” how she “wasn’t surprised at all to find out he liked men.” It was a load of bullshit, but the press ate it up.

Bruce polished off the last of his drink, scowled at the empty glass. He couldn’t drink too much; he had to drive all the way back to Gotham after this. He looked up at Clark, who was watching him expectantly, and sighed.

“Can we go outside?” he asked wearily. “I need a smoke.”

Bruce settled their tab and Clark followed him out. He must’ve known Bruce was in a bad mood because he didn’t even poke fun at Bruce for picking up smoking again. Every time Bruce tried to quit, something stressful would happen in his life and he wouldn’t have any other way to cope, so he’d promise himself he’d quit for real when the stressful event was over, and the cycle continued.

“Fuck,” Bruce said once they were standing outside the bar, a summation of how he felt about… everything. Bruce had a cigarette between his fingers and Clark had his hands in his pockets and was visibly restraining himself from voicing his concern for his friend’s health. “Have you seen what people are saying in the LGBT community?” he asked to give Clark a distraction.

“I haven’t looked since you officially came out. I’d imagine they’re supportive?”

“They were more supportive when they thought I was gay,” Bruce said. He’d scrolled through the forums, read the blog posts. Someone being gay was straightforward, easy to understand. Bisexuality was trickier. “It seems like, even within the community, there are plenty of people who don’t know what bisexuality is or don’t believe it’s a real thing.”

“‘Don’t believe it’s a real thing,’” Clark repeated dryly. “What is this, climate change?”

“There’s also a lot of criticism of my – how did you put it? – ‘sexual history.’ Apparently I’m perpetuating the stereotype that bisexuals are all promiscuous.”

“That’s ridiculous. Who you sleep with doesn’t affect anyone else,” Clark argued. “You’re one person; why would anyone expect you to represent an entire community?”

Clark was right, of course, but as usual, the rest of the world didn’t see things the way he saw them, which Bruce knew was a constant source of frustration for Clark. “The average American can’t name a single bisexual person, if they’re even aware bisexuality exists. But if they’ve been reading or watching the news lately, they know about me. Which means currently I’m the only bisexual person they know, and I have a reputation for sleeping around. I can understand why other bisexuals would be upset by that. So far I’m doing a shitty job representing them.”

“I think you’re doing a fine job,” Clark countered. “Do you have any idea what a difference it would have made if I’d seen someone like you coming out as bisexual on live TV when I was younger? Besides, it shouldn’t be your responsibility. The fact that our culture looks up to celebrities as moral examples is fucked to begin with.”

Bruce chuckled. Clark didn’t curse often, though he did a lot more when Bruce was around. Bruce thought he was probably a corrupting influence.

“I think I’m going to lay low for a while,” Bruce said. He put out his cigarette and stopped himself from lighting another. “Or try to. All this media attention has been great for distracting the public from looking too hard at my extracurricular activities, but I have other things to consider. Like the company. Scandals aren’t good for business. And since most of the Wayne Foundation’s funding comes from Wayne Enterprises, any losses for the company would affect that too. Not to mention my night job.” Clark smirked at Bruce’s creative innuendos to being Batman. Bruce lowered his voice even though there wasn’t anyone nearby; the nearest pedestrians were waiting at the crosswalk down the street. “Fighting crime is expensive when you’re not nearly invincible. And there’s my sanity to consider.”

“I get it,” Clark said. “It makes sense to lay low.”

Bruce had thought about it a great deal since his interview, what his next move would be. Laying low seemed like the path of least resistance. It would take a while, but eventually people would move on, get used to the fact that he was bisexual, treat it less like a scandal and more like a mildly interesting novelty, something they could make the occasional insensitive joke about, if they thought about it at all. He’d only come up with one other plan, one he didn’t even think would work. There were too many variables. If he could pull it off, though, it’d solve some of these new problems he’d run into.

He decided to run it by Clark, even though he knew it was most likely a dead end. Clark always provided a fresh perspective; the fact that he saw things so differently from Bruce meant he could sometimes see a way out of a situation Bruce felt stuck in. “It’d be even better if I could get into a long-term relationship,” Bruce said casually. “Especially with a man. Force everyone to adjust to the fact that I’m not straight while also dispelling that promiscuity stereotype.” He paused, shrugged. “But obviously that’s not something I have much control over. I can’t force someone to enter a relationship with me.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who’d love to be in a relationship with you,” Clark insisted, ever the supportive friend.

“Yes, but I also have to like them.” Bruce met Clark’s gaze and smirked. “And I don’t like that many people.”

“You’ll figure something out,” Clark said earnestly. “You always do.”

* * *

_Clark_

Anyone who knew Clark, even if they didn’t know he was Superman, knew he was hard-wired to look out for others. He put everyone else’s needs before his own, and it didn’t just make him a good superhero; it made him a great friend. He was the friend to go to when anyone who knew him found themselves in a tough spot, the first one they called to help out.

Even Bruce, who was even more self-sacrificial than Clark was, who probably broke out into hives at the mere thought of involving someone else in his problems. Even he came to Clark for advice every now and then, and sometimes – very rarely, but sometimes – asked for Clark’s help. And though it had taken years for them to build their friendship up to that level, every second of that time was worth it in Clark’s eyes.

Bruce had trusted him enough to talk to him about what he was going through. In fact, he’d been uncharacteristically open about it; usually it took a lot more convincing to get him to share. Maybe Clark coming out to him had made him realize they had more in common than either of them might have thought. Or maybe he was just that desperate for someone to talk to. Even Bruce couldn’t live his whole life keeping everything to himself.

Even though their conversation had been brief, Clark, knowing Bruce as well as he did, could tell Bruce was frustrated by his current situation. He planned out everything in his life meticulously, balancing his dual roles as Batman and billionaire, executing all of his responsibilities with precision. He was obviously a perfectionist, and when anything didn’t go according to plan, especially in a major way, he had a tendency to spiral. The unhealthy coping mechanisms came out; the smoking, especially, was a worrying development, the most telling sign that he was going through something and not handling it well.

It made Clark want to _do_ something. There had to be some way he could make things easier for Bruce, more than just listening to him vent.

He remembered what Bruce had said, toward the end of their conversation outside the bar, about how he wanted to get into a relationship to solve some of the PR problems he was facing. Clark had an idea.

It was probably a very bad idea.

He called up Lois late Tuesday night, after he’d given himself twenty-four hours to talk himself out of it and only managed to talk himself into it more. He needed her perspective. She was always the voice of reason. She would know if what he was planning to do was absolutely insane or just a little bit crazy.

She answered on the second ring and Clark launched right into his spiel: “I have to warn you that I’m about to do something stupid.”

“Are you giving me a chance to talk you out of it?” Lois asked, utterly unfazed. Clark’s late-night brainstorming sessions were not a new phenomenon. When they were dating, these sessions happened regularly. Lois would carefully go through all the flaws in Clark’s plan, point by point, after which he would usually decide to go through with it anyway, because he was stubborn.

“Please do,” Clark said.

“What are you planning to do?”

“Bruce wants to enter a relationship with someone to dispel the stereotype that bisexuals all sleep around with tons of people,” Clark explained. “And he wants it to be with a man. I think if he jumped right into a relationship with a woman after all that, people would suspect he was trying to convince everyone he’s straight again.”

“Makes sense. Where do you come in?”

“I was going to offer to pretend to be in a relationship with him for, say, a year. I think we could sell it. We’re friendly enough with each other; we’d just need to be seen in public together, pose for the cameras, he’d have to mention me in some interviews.”

“It would require you to come out as bisexual,” Lois warned. “To the entire world.”

That was the part Clark had spent the most time thinking about. He’d come out to his parents shortly after realizing and accepting he was bisexual. An alien baby had fallen from the sky onto their land and they’d raised him as their own; Clark had felt confident they wouldn’t reject him, after all that, just for being bisexual. He’d then come out to Lois when they were dating, wanting to be open with her. She’d already figured out he was Superman; telling her he was also bisexual was much less intimidating after that.

And, of course, he’d just come out to Bruce, but only because Bruce had come out first, publicly, on television.

Clark’s plan had always been not to come out to anyone else unless he started seriously dating another man. Coming out to the entire world by pretending to date Bruce… actually wasn’t as much of a deviation from that plan as it could be. Besides, there wasn’t much Clark wouldn’t do for a friend. He’d sacrifice his life for Bruce, and he knew Bruce would do the same. Compared to that, this was nothing.

“The only thing that matters to me is that Perry doesn’t fire me for it,” Clark said truthfully, “Which I don’t think he would.” In fact, it wouldn’t have even occurred to Clark to worry about his job if it hadn’t been for the layoffs.

“He hasn’t fired you for dating another employee or disappearing at random times of day,” Lois reasoned. “He’s not going to fire you for your sexuality. But you really don’t care about being in the news? You know the things they’d say about you.”

“I know.” He’d already heard people say many of those same things about Bruce, which was just as bad as anyone saying them about Clark. “It’s not that I don’t care. I’d just… I’d rather people say those things about me than anyone else.”

“Typical Clark, putting yourself in the line of fire to help a friend.” Lois sounded weary but not surprised.

“You think I shouldn’t do it?”

“I think you shouldn’t feel obligated to do it. I think it’s a very Clark thing to do, inventing a way to take some of the heat off of a friend. And because you’re _my_ friend, I don’t want to see you put yourself through that, the same way you don’t like watching Bruce go through it.” She paused, but Clark could tell she wasn’t finished and waited. Eventually, she continued, “But I think you’re right that you and Bruce could sell it. You have good chemistry. And if he was dating someone who wasn’t famous, the press wouldn’t care as much and might lay off a little.”

As always, Lois had given him a fair assessment, and Clark respected that. And the fact that she hadn’t shot his idea down immediately meant she didn’t think it was as terrible as Clark had assumed she would. “What I’m hearing is, it’s not my worst idea.”

Instead of giving Clark the tacit permission he was waiting for, Lois continued her analysis. “You wouldn’t be able to date anyone else until you ‘broke up’ with him,” she said.

That was the least of Clark’s worries. “It’s not like I’ve been doing a ton of dating as it is.” He’d been on a handful of first dates since he and Lois had broken up, but he’d never felt enough chemistry with anyone he met to go on a second date. And it was hard to see how he would make a relationship work; he needed someone he could trust enough to share his secret identity with, and that was a very short list of people.

“The only thing I could think of that would make this a really bad plan,” Lois concluded, “Is if you had any kind of feelings for Bruce. I can’t imagine pretending to date someone you have real feelings for.”

Clark dismissed this point immediately. “Bruce is attractive, sure. And he’s a good friend. But I don’t have feelings for him.”

“Then…” Lois sighed. “I almost hate to say this, but it might not be your _worst_ idea. If it’s what you want to do, I won’t try to stop you.”

It was the best reaction Clark could have hoped for from Lois. He was genuinely shocked. “That’s good enough for me.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ Bruce _

Clark called just a few days after they’d gone to the bar. It hadn’t been that long ago that they’d started spending time together outside of work (both their superhero work and their real work, which occasionally brought them together), and Bruce was still getting used to Clark  _ calling  _ him. It was such a normal thing for two extremely abnormal people like themselves to do.

“I’ve been thinking about your plan to get into a relationship,” was the first thing Clark said, after their hellos. He was very good at cutting to the chase with Bruce, which Bruce appreciated.

“I wouldn’t call that a plan,” Bruce replied. “More of a vague idea. But go on.”

“You said the biggest obstacle to making that happen is that there aren’t many people you like enough to enter into a relationship with. What if it wasn’t a real relationship? What if instead you made an agreement with someone to pretend to be in a relationship for a while? Play it up for the cameras long enough to reassure everyone that you’re capable of monogamy, then stage a breakup and go your separate ways? Like a beard, but instead of giving the illusion that you’re straight, the idea would be to give the illusion that you’re ready to settle down.”

Bruce considered this. It was an intriguing idea, but it presented many of the same problems as a real relationship. “So instead of finding someone who’s willing to be in a relationship with me, I have to find someone who’s willing to be in a fake relationship with me? That sounds even more difficult.” Not only would the ideal candidate have to like Bruce as a person, and Bruce would have to like them, but they’d also have to be willing to lie to the rest of the world for him. Bruce couldn’t think of a person who fit that criteria, other than Alfred and Lucius, who certainly wouldn’t make the list of people Bruce was willing to pretend to date, one being like a father to him and the other being married.

And there was Clark, Bruce realized. Clark liked Bruce as a person, and Bruce liked Clark. Clark was willing to lie to the rest of the world for him; Bruce wouldn’t have trusted him with his secret identity otherwise. He and Bruce were roughly the same age, and he was single.

Before he could go too far down that rabbit hole, Bruce continued, “And what do they get out of it? I’m not paying someone to pretend to date me. I have  _ some _ dignity. There might be some people willing to do it just for the media attention, but those aren’t people I’d relish spending a significant amount of time with, even if it was all for show.”

“That’s why it has to be someone who’ll do it because they want to help you out,” Clark explained. “Because they’re your friend.”

A fine idea in theory, but far easier said than done. “I don’t have many of those,” Bruce told him. Alfred. Clark. Lucius. Did Selina count as a friend? Their relationship was… complicated. Diana, but she wasn’t big on deception. Probably had something to do with being the bearer of the Lasso of Truth.

“I’m talking about me,” Clark said. “I’ll do it.”

Bruce waited for the punchline, but there wasn’t one. Clark was being serious. He was offering to pretend to date Bruce for an extended period of time in order to make some of Bruce’s problems go away. And yes, Bruce had just been thinking about how Clark was probably the only person in Bruce’s life with whom he could make a fake relationship work, and it was very much in character for Clark to offer himself up like this. But Bruce knew immediately what his answer would be. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

“You’ve seen how the media talks about the people I sleep with. You’ve seen how they treat me for being bisexual. You think they’ll treat you any better? Won’t that impact your career?” Clark was the opposite of an attention seeker. He would hate receiving half the media attention he’d get if he was publicly dating – pretending to date – Bruce Wayne. He didn’t even like how much media attention he got as Superman. Clark didn’t do what he did for fame and recognition; he did it because he was a good person and it was the right thing to do. Now he was trying to do the right thing by offering to help Bruce solve some of his PR problems.

“Not as much as regularly disappearing in the middle of the work day to save the world,” Clark said.

“You wouldn’t be able to stay in the closet.”

“Obviously.”

Bruce was shocked at how flippantly Clark was treating this, how willing he was to entangle himself in Bruce’s shitshow of a personal life. But Bruce wouldn’t let Clark get involved. He would solve his own problems. He’d made this mess out of his own indiscretions and now he, alone, was responsible for fixing it. “I’m not going to ask you to do that,” Bruce said with, he hoped, finality.

“You don’t have to ask me anything,” Clark insisted stubbornly. “It’s my idea.”

Bruce could be stubborn too. “I’m not doing it,” he repeated. “I’ll figure something else out.”

Thankfully, Clark didn’t push the matter. He knew how to pick his battles with Bruce. They hung up, and Bruce went on with his day, deliberately avoiding thinking too much about the conversation.

Since the “get into a long-term relationship” plan didn’t seem viable and Clark’s “fake relationship” plan was dead on arrival, Bruce had no choice but to go with his original plan of laying low. He didn’t go out, didn’t call or text any of his old flings, just went to work, came home, went out as Batman, and slept. The one thing he couldn’t avoid, though, was the upcoming Wayne Foundation fundraiser. Every year at the start of the school year he invited the Foundation’s donors, along with potential future donors, to Wayne Manor to raise money for supplies, tutoring, and other services for school-aged children in Gotham’s foster care system. He couldn’t reschedule it, and as the Foundation’s president, he certainly couldn’t skip it.

When the day came, Bruce put on his best suit – which was to say he chose one of his suits at random, because he looked good in all of them – and fervently hoped no one he’d invited would be tactless enough to mention his sexuality scandal at a fundraiser for children. At least not to his face. And especially not to any reporters.

He’d been especially careful when choosing which media outlets the Foundation would invite to cover the event. The  _ Gotham Gazette _ was always responsible about what it published, and of course he’d invited the  _ Daily Planet _ . He didn’t realize until he saw Clark arrive in his modestly priced suit and press badge how much of a relief it was to know at least one reporter there wouldn’t try to stir up shit.

Halfway through the night, after roughly an hour of shaking hands and schmoozing, something caught Bruce’s attention out of the corner of his eye, someone moving quickly through the crowd. It was Clark, making a beeline for the door leading out onto the balcony. Bruce followed, thinking Clark had probably heard some far-off danger and was jetting off to save the day. He wasn’t sure he could leave his own fundraiser early, but if something truly terrible had happened or was about to happen, Bruce would drop everything and go, like he always did.

Emerging out into the cool September night mere moments behind Clark, Bruce found him leaning against the railing, looking over his shoulder to greet Bruce with a smile – of course he’d heard Bruce follow him – and not taking off into the sky like Bruce had expected. Bruce switched gears, the adrenaline seeping out of him, heart rate slowing to normal. “I thought you were leaving to go save someone, and I was going to offer my assistance if you needed it,” he said. “But something tells me that’s not what brought you out here.”

Clark turned away, looking out toward the Gotham skyline. Bruce came to stand beside him, close enough that their elbows barely touched. “I just needed some fresh air,” Clark explained. He looked stressed. He might not have sensed someone in danger, but something had definitely happened to put him on edge.

“I know the feeling.” Bruce withdrew a box of cigarettes from his pocket. As he lit one, he deliberately avoided Clark’s gaze.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Clark said. Apparently he could only refrain from commenting on Bruce’s bad habits for so long.

“I’m quitting,” Bruce assured him, which was what he said every time, to anyone who expressed concern. (Mostly Alfred.)

“You quit a year ago,” Clark pointed out, much like Alfred would. Like Alfred hadn’t relied on nicotine to survive raising an impetuous teenage Bruce just as much as Bruce relied on it now.

“That was before I had to handle the ongoing PR nightmare that is my sexuality,” Bruce said, voice low in the silence of the night. Clark leaned in, ostensibly to hear him better, a habit that was probably hard to break when he was around someone like Bruce who knew about Clark’s super senses. “I’ll quit again once I figure out what to do about that.”

“My offer is still on the table,” Clark said. Bruce shot him a look that told him he still wasn’t going to have this conversation.

“My answer is still no.” Bruce glanced over his shoulder at the ongoing party behind them, searching for a change of subject. “What did you overhear in there?” he asked.

“What makes you think I heard something?”

Bruce gave a quick smirk that was halfway to a smile. “Because you hear everything.” He swept his gaze over Clark, taking in the tension in every line of his body, the tight set of his jaw. “It must’ve been bad,” he observed. “You look ready to hit something.”

Clark ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a sharp breath. “I don’t like listening to people talk shit about you behind your back,” he murmured, voice nearly a whisper. Now Bruce had to lean in closer.

“People do that all the time,” he reminded Clark. “I’m a controversial public figure.”

“Until recently at least they weren’t doing it in a homophobic way,” Clark said bitterly. “I don’t know what part of it bothers me more, the fact that you’re my friend and I hate hearing people say that shit about you or the fact that I can just as easily picture them saying it about me if I came out. Not Clark Kent,” he clarified. “These people couldn’t care less about me like this. But Superman.”

“Is that something you’ve thought about? Coming out as Superman?” It had never even occurred to Bruce to do something like that as Batman. The less people knew about Batman, the better. He was supposed to be mysterious, enigmatic, unknown and unknowable. But Clark’s approach to Superman was very different. He was friendlier, more approachable. People were supposed to be able to relate to him. So it made sense for him to be more open.

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” Clark said.

“Why haven’t you done it?”

“I don’t know if it would ruin everything,” Clark admitted, achingly honest like he always was. Bruce didn’t know how he did it. He didn’t know if he envied the way Clark wore his heart on his sleeve or if he pitied it. “So much of the power of Superman doesn’t come from me; it comes from how people see me. Superman isn’t just a person; he’s a symbol for doing the right thing, helping others, striving to be a better version of yourself. The way Batman is designed to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, Superman is supposed to inspire hope. Can I do that if so much of the world hates me for who I am?” Clark paused, turned around to look behind them, frowning.

“What?” Bruce turned as well, but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary through the glass French doors.

“Nothing. I thought I heard someone.” Clark shook his head, but his gaze lingered on the party for another moment. “Anyway, if I was publicly in a relationship with you, it would at least give me a chance to see what it’s like, being bisexual in the public eye.” He looked up at Bruce with a smile. “It would be like a trial run.”

Bruce sighed. This again. He wasn’t in the mood to talk about this. He maintained eye contact with Clark as he put out his cigarette and lit another. Clark’s smile instantly dimmed to an unamused scowl, knowing Bruce was deliberately trying to provoke him. “Alright, you’ve made your point,” he said, plucking the second cigarette out of Bruce’s fingers. Bruce didn’t protest; he needed to get back to the fundraiser anyway. When Clark turned and strode back into the ballroom, Bruce watched him leave, and then followed.

* * *

_ Clark _

The pictures went up overnight. Clark saw them first thing in the morning when he opened a text from Lois:  _ Google “Bruce Wayne with mystery man at fundraiser.” _ He got out of bed and went over to his laptop, typing quickly. He knew what he was going to find, but he had to see it for himself.

There they were, in an online article on a celebrity gossip website. Someone had taken the pictures using a cell phone camera, it looked like, which meant at least it wasn’t one of the reporters the Wayne Foundation had invited to cover the event; any of them would have used a real camera. They’d caught him and Bruce leaning toward each other on the balcony, mere inches between them. It was undeniably an intimate position. Clark could easily see how the average observer would interpret their relationship as more than platonic, judging from these pictures alone.

The attached article was more or less what Clark expected: It mentioned the video that had started it all, Bruce making out with a different “mystery man,” as well as the interview and him coming out. It mentioned that Bruce and “the unidentified reporter” – Clark’s press badge was visible in the photos – were seen together at the annual Wayne Foundation start-of-school fundraiser and it said some derogatory things about how Bruce seemed to be “easily distracted from his mission of donating school supplies to children” and how he couldn’t even keep it in his pants in the middle of an ongoing scandal. It made Clark’s blood boil.

Clark went to work and waited all morning for Bruce’s call. It finally came when he was on his lunch break.

“Have you seen the pictures?” Bruce asked, not even bothering to say hello.

“I have,” Clark answered.

“At least whoever took them doesn’t seem to know who you are. Although I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before someone puts a name to your face.”

“I think once people find out I’m just a boring journalist with nothing salacious in my past, they’ll probably stop caring. I only matter because I’m a man you may or may not have slept with.”

“You don’t care if people assume that about you?”

“I care what people think about Superman, because Superman is supposed to represent something. As Clark Kent, I couldn’t care less what the general public thinks of me.” This was the truth. There was a short list of people whose opinions actually mattered to Clark: his parents, his coworkers, his boss, Lois. Bruce. Beyond that, it didn’t make a difference. “That’s one of the perks of being a nobody.” Clark paused, and he knew, he  _ knew _ Bruce didn’t want to talk about it, but he couldn’t help pushing a little, so he added, “You have to admit, we make a convincing pair.”

There was a long pause. Clark checked to make sure Bruce hadn’t hung up. Finally, Bruce said, “You think if we pretended to be together that it’d really be enough to change my image?”

“I think you’re my friend and I’m sick of hearing people talk shit about you and being powerless to do anything about it. It’s the only thing I could come up with that might help.” Clark shouldered his way through the front door to his office building, hands full with the lunch he was bringing back for Lois, who rarely took a break from work, even to eat. “I mean, I could write an op-ed about you, but I doubt Perry would publish it. It’s not exactly the type of hard-hitting news he hired me to write about.”

Another pause, shorter this time. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.” Then, seemingly before he could change his mind, Bruce said, “Let’s meet up. We’ll talk about it.”

“You want me to come to the Manor?” Clark asked, waiting outside the elevators so he wouldn’t lose cell service.

“If we’re going to do this – and I’m still not entirely convinced we should – we should be seen in public together. Are you free Friday night?”

“Sure.” Clark honestly couldn’t believe Bruce was (sort of) agreeing to this. Finally, he’d actually be able to  _ do _ something other than stand and watch and wish bad things wouldn’t happen to people he cared about.

“I know a place in Gotham where we’ll definitely be seen. Wear what you wore last night.”

“So this is a place where a lot of rich people go,” Clark inferred.

“You’ll blend right in.” Clark could hear the smirk in Bruce’s voice, which was a welcome change from his terminal seriousness. “I mean, obviously you bought that suit at a Men’s Wearhouse, but your face is pretty enough to distract from that.”

Clark was surprised by the way his stomach flipped at the compliment. He knew he was objectively attractive, but it was different to hear it from Bruce, who’d  _ never _ complimented him on his appearance. “Are you negging me?” he joked, keeping the sincere pleasure out of his voice.

Bruce didn’t deign to answer that. “We’ll meet at eight,” he said simply. “I’ll text you the address.”

The restaurant was called Solstice, and it even looked expensive from the outside. Clark arrived at eight P.M. sharp wearing his one good suit, freshly dry cleaned after the fundraiser. Bruce was waiting for him, leaning against a silver sports car in the parking lot. It was, Clark noted absently, a different sports car from the one in the video of Bruce making out with that guy. Clark was not at all surprised to learn Bruce owned multiple sports cars.

“You look good,” Bruce said, coming over to greet him. Clark’s stomach flipped again. He did the math and realized it had been six months since he’d last been on a date. No wonder a simple “you look good” was enough to charm him. He needed to get out more.

“I’m just wearing what you told me to wear,” Clark replied. He remembered his manners and added, “You look good too.” Which was true. Bruce always looked good.

They entered the restaurant together. It was busy, being a Friday night, but the host must have recognized Bruce because he seated them immediately without a reservation. Clark felt a little twinge of guilt, like he was taking advantage of Bruce’s fame. He wondered if Bruce ever felt guilty doing this, or if he was so used to it that it didn’t even register.

“Nice place,” Clark remarked when they sat down with their menus.

“When the waiter comes to take our drink orders,” Bruce said, very seriously, “I want you to say nothing.”

Clark laughed. Contrary to what Bruce might think, Clark could actually taste the difference between good and bad beer, wine, and liquor – he had super senses, after all – but because he couldn’t get drunk on it, to him the stuff was all incredibly overrated. The only fun Clark could get out of drinking was deliberately goading Bruce by ordering the shittiest stuff available. Apparently that wouldn’t fly here.

Because he was trying to get Bruce to agree to his fake dating plan, Clark didn’t push back against Bruce’s request. When the waiter came by, Clark said, “I’ll have what he’s having,” and left it at that. They ended up with a nice bottle of red for the table and Bruce looked pleased that Clark hadn’t embarrassed him.

“So,” Bruce said once they’d ordered and the food had arrived. “Tell me more about how this plan of yours would work.”

This was the part Clark had been preparing for. The fact that Bruce was even hearing him out on this meant Bruce was most likely halfway to agreeing with him already; Bruce wouldn’t have entertained the idea if he didn’t see some merit to it. So Clark didn’t need to try too hard to sell it. He just needed to dispel any lingering doubts Bruce might have.

“It’s already working,” he said. He kept his voice down so people sitting at the adjacent tables wouldn’t overhear their conversation, though most of their fellow diners were too wrapped up in their meals or their company to pay much attention to them. “Those pictures of us at the fundraiser were the beginning. If people see us here tonight, like you said they would, that’ll keep the ball rolling. I think we should keep playing it subtle for at least a month or two, make sure we’re seen together but not doing anything explicitly romantic. We can’t jump straight to making out on camera if we want it to be believable. After what happened with that video, it would make sense for you to be a lot more cautious about how you act around men in public.”

Bruce nodded, apparently seeing the logic in this. Clark continued, “Eventually, though, we’ll need to give the press what they’re looking for. Something that’ll get their attention, something that makes it look like we’ve been caught in the act. Then you’ll tell everyone we’re dating, make a big deal about how you were hoping to keep your dating life private and keep me out of the limelight since I’m not a celebrity, but now the cat’s out of the bag so you might as well come clean. Then all we’ll have to do is keep it up until you’ve proven you’re not allergic to commitment. I figure that’ll take about a year. Then we stage an amicable breakup and move on with our lives.”

“It’s not a terrible plan,” Bruce admitted.

Clark chuckled. “That’s almost exactly what Lois said when I ran it by her. I’m telling you, you need to meet her; the two of you are surprisingly similar.”

“We’ll need to set some ground rules,” Bruce said, all business.

“Of course,” Clark agreed. “Either one of us can break it off at any time if we decide we don’t want to do it anymore. We’ll just stage the breakup earlier.”

“What about the type of activities you’re willing to participate in?” Bruce asked. “Again, acknowledging that you can change your mind at any time. But generally speaking, would you be open to being interviewed once we went public?”

“Sure,” Clark said with a shrug. “I’ve been interviewed before.” As Superman, he didn’t add, but they both knew. And more than half of those interviews had been… him interviewing himself. But still. He had the requisite skills.

Bruce pressed on, “And we’d have to act like we’re physically attracted to each other. You understand what that will entail.”

Clark understood. It was one of the first things that had occurred to him when he’d first come up with his fake relationship plan. He knew it would involve acting like he was in a relationship with Bruce, at least in public. Touching. Kissing. His mind went to the video of Bruce and Mystery Guy, Clark’s not-so-affectionate nickname for the man Bruce had gotten caught making out with. Clark would have to do  _ that _ with Bruce. But instead of making him feel uncomfortable, as he imagined most people would feel at the idea of kissing a completely platonic friend, the thought almost excited him.

“I have to make out with one of the most attractive men I know,” Clark deadpanned. “The horror.” Bruce shot him a look that said  _ be serious _ and he added, “Actors do it all the time. I’m sure I can manage.”

“You are a surprisingly good actor; I’ll give you that,” Bruce admitted. He drifted off into silence, and he looked deep in thought. Rather than try to keep the conversation going, Clark turned his attention to his meal, occasionally glancing up at Bruce to see if it looked like he’d made a decision.

They finished eating in relative silence. Only when Bruce was signing the check did Clark finally speak up. “So do you agree? Are we doing this?” he asked.

Bruce met his gaze, expression unreadable. “We’re doing it,” he said.

A complicated knot of emotions unraveled in Clark’s gut. He was relieved to finally be able to do something to help Bruce, determined to make this work, but also a little anxious. So much was on the line here. There were so many ways this could go wrong. Perry could fire him. The media attention could prove too much for him. They could get found out. There was even the possibility that this scheme could wreck his friendship with Bruce.

But then Clark remembered all the things he’d read online since that video of Bruce leaked. He remembered all that he’d overheard at the fundraiser; Bruce’s guests had been polite enough not to insult him to his face, but they’d done plenty of talking behind his back, and Clark’s super senses meant he’d heard every word. He couldn’t start dwelling on worst-case scenarios that would distract him from his mission. He would do whatever it took to help Bruce, to take some of the heat off of him. And he was ready to get started.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took longer than usual, I work in politics in DC and uhhh shit’s crazy.

_ Bruce _

This was Bruce’s line of thinking when he agreed to Clark’s fake relationship plan: If the two of them kept seeing each other in a friendly capacity, which Bruce had no doubt they would, the press was going to assume there was something between them anyway. Any man Bruce was seen showing any amount of apparent affection toward would no doubt find himself the target of wild speculation now that Bruce’s sexuality was out in the open, even if that affection was entirely platonic. It had been that way for Bruce with women for a long time now. He was used to it. And since Clark was the only single, appropriately aged man Bruce was especially friendly with, Bruce could easily see that speculation taking the shape of assumptions that the pair of them were secret lovers. Those photos of them at the fundraiser were proof of that. It would only get worse.

In other words, unless they agreed never to acknowledge one another in public again, Clark was going to find himself in the middle of some kind of drama. As long as Clark was willing, why not take advantage of that? With Clark’s plan, he and Bruce would take control of the narrative about them, which was far more useful than letting rumors run wild.

Besides, Clark was right. They made an extremely convincing pair. Bruce had stared at the pictures of them long enough, trying to see them from an outsider’s point of view. The way Bruce leaned toward Clark, the look on Clark’s face like he was hanging onto Bruce’s every word. It could be the cover of a fucking romance novel. And of course they’d only been that close because they were discussing their sexualities and Clark’s secret identity and hadn’t wanted anyone to overhear, but the cell phone photographer hadn’t known that, and neither did the gossip websites.

And Clark had been so… persistent. Bruce would never admit it, but of the two of them, Clark was actually the more stubborn. Not all the time – again, Clark knew to pick his battles – but when Clark put his mind to something, he could not and would not be stopped. That was how they’d become friends in the first place, how Clark had gotten Bruce to open up: slowly, over time, eroding the walls Bruce put up around himself, chipping away at Bruce’s defenses with his friendly smile and optimistic attitude. They were a classic case of an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, only it turned out Bruce wasn’t quite as immovable as he, and everyone else, had assumed.

They made plans to go out again in a few days. They couldn’t count on someone snapping photos of them every time they went somewhere public, so they’d have to do it frequently to increase the odds.

Bruce let Clark pick their activity for the night, which was how they ended up at one of Gotham’s comedy clubs. It wasn’t a destination Bruce would have ever visited of his own accord, but at least the place served drinks.

They met at Wayne Manor so they’d be seen arriving together. They’d each dressed down a bit, especially compared to their last “date” at Solstice. Clark looked like he was going to work on a casual Friday, in a button-up shirt and jeans; Bruce was in a suit minus the jacket and tie, which was about as casual as he got.

“Are you ready for this?” Bruce asked as they climbed into one of his cars. “There’s still time to change your mind.”

Clark flashed Bruce a confident, reassuring smile. “I’m ready,” he said. “We’re not doing anything crazy. We’re just spending an evening together. I’d enjoy doing that even if we weren’t trying to convince everyone we’re dating.”

It was a fair point. According to Clark’s plan, these first few fake dates wouldn’t be anything too out of the ordinary for them. They’d gone for drinks together plenty of times as friends. The only difference was that this time they were trying to be seen. And trying to look like a couple. Although judging by the media’s response to the photographs of them at the fundraiser, they didn’t have to try very hard to accomplish that particular goal.

They arrived a few minutes into the opening act, got drinks from the bar, and found a table for two near the stage. It was early enough in the evening that the venue was only just starting to get crowded.

As the evening wore on, Bruce felt increasingly justified in having never been to one of these places on his own. Contrary to what some people thought of him, Bruce did have a sense of humor, but stand-up comedy had never appealed to him and, watching it live, it still didn’t. So much of stand-up comedy revolved around “relatable” humor, but Bruce, being a billionaire CEO by day and vigilante crimefighter by night, couldn’t relate to what most people found relatable.

Clark, on the other hand, was obviously enjoying himself. Bruce had heard the man laugh before – had made him laugh before, plenty of times – but he’d never seen Clark laugh so long and so loud. Not every joke elicited the same response; some earned only a chuckle or two, while others brought Clark nearly to tears. Before long, Bruce found he was far more invested in watching Clark’s reaction than the comics themselves.

They’d planned to stay for the entire show to give people plenty of time to notice, elbow their friends and dates and whisper, “Hey, is that Bruce Wayne over there? Who’s that guy he’s with?”, but the energy in the club changed when a man took the stage whose entire set seemed to revolve around thinly veiled sexism and homophobia: a story about his “psycho ex-girlfriend,” a story about a time a gay man hit on him (being attracted to men himself, Bruce had a hard time imagining  _ anyone _ hitting on this creep).

The audience’s reaction was mixed. A good portion of the club’s male audience members were rolling in their seats with laughter, and many of the women offered terse fake laughter after the sexist jokes and more genuine laughter after the homophobic ones. Only a few faces, scattered here and there throughout the crowd, appeared visibly uncomfortable or unamused.

Clark was one of them. He hadn’t laughed once since Mr. “Edgy” Humor took the stage. He rolled his eyes at a particularly distasteful joke and turned to Bruce, leaning across the small table between them so Bruce would hear him clearly over the laughter surrounding them. “I’ve had enough of this idiot. Can we get out of here?”

“Definitely,” Bruce said, equally ready to leave. They paid their tab and slipped out the door unnoticed, save for one of the bartenders doing a double take as they walked by. At least no one in management had realized Bruce Wayne was in attendance that night. He could all too easily imagine a scenario where word got to the club owner that a famous billionaire was in the audience, where the club owner asked him how he was enjoying the show and Bruce would either have to lie and say it was great or find a polite way to say he hadn’t found a single one of the acts legitimately funny and had found the last one downright offensive.

Bruce could be as blunt and abrasive as he wanted in his personal life, and even more so when he was Batman, but in public he had to avoid the appearance of being rude, especially when he was already embroiled in a scandal.

When they stepped out into the night, Bruce reached in his pocket only to remember that he purposefully hadn’t brought his lighter or cigarettes. Clark had come up with this whole plan to help Bruce out, volunteered to pretend to date him for a significant period of time, and he clearly objected to Bruce’s smoking. It was the least Bruce could do, not smoking in Clark’s presence while Clark was doing so much for him. At least, that was what Bruce had decided when he’d left the Manor earlier that evening. Now, hours later, after enduring twenty minutes of sexist and homophobic bullshit poorly disguised as comedy, he was seriously regretting that decision.

Clark, picking up on Bruce’s frustration, offered a sympathetic smile as they got in Bruce’s car. “Shitty way to end the night,” he remarked.

Bruce didn’t reply right away, buckled his seatbelt in silence and took off down the road. It was well past rush hour, which meant at least he didn’t have traffic to contend with and worsen his mood. “Do you have to get home soon?” Bruce asked, glancing over at Clark at a stoplight. “Or can I monopolize your time for another hour or two?” He almost felt bad asking, knowing Clark would say yes even if he did have to get home. Clark would never say no to a friend.

“Monopolize away,” Clark said with another bright smile. Absolutely predictable.

Bruce took them back to the Manor, where he poured twin glasses of whiskey. It didn’t matter that Clark couldn’t get drunk or that he never asked for anything nicer than an ice cold beer; he needed a drinking buddy and any alcohol he had in the house was expensive as shit anyway, so he may as well give Clark the good stuff.

They sat next to each other at the kitchen counter, bodies angled toward each other.

“I have to admit, this isn’t the best first date I’ve been on,” Clark said. “But it also wasn’t the worst.” It was a lame attempt at humor, but Bruce appreciated that Clark was trying to lift his spirits – and his own, as well, most likely – so he gave a quick smile.

“Technically, I think Solstice was our first date,” Bruce replied.

“Not my best second date, then,” Clark amended. “To be fair, I was having a good time until that unfunny asshole started performing. Although…” He frowned. “It didn’t look like you were enjoying yourself very much.”

“Stand-up comedy isn’t my thing,” Bruce said easily, not wanting Clark to feel bad for picking a “date” activity that Bruce hadn’t enjoyed.

“You should have told me that when I suggested the idea,” Clark insisted, apparently feeling bad anyway, which was very typical of Clark.

“Clark,” Bruce said, leveling him with a stare. “We’re not actually dating. You don’t have to impress me, and it doesn’t really matter whether or not I enjoy myself. The only important thing is that our ‘dates’ take us out in public, and by that standard, a comedy club was a fine idea.”

“Just because this is all for show doesn’t mean we can’t do things we both enjoy. I don’t want you to be miserable.”

“I wasn’t miserable,” Bruce said honestly. “I liked that you were having a good time. Not everything in my life has to be about me.”

Clark looked at him for a long moment, then looked down at their drinks between them. “Still,” he said, “Next time I suggest something you don’t want to do,  _ tell me _ . I’ll pick something else.” He looked up. “Okay?”

Bruce knew if he didn’t agree, Clark would just keep pushing, so he gave in. “Alright.”

Clark stayed and drank with Bruce until it was late enough that Bruce couldn’t justify keeping him there (or waiting any longer to patrol the streets of Gotham). They said their goodbyes at the front door, Bruce leaning against the doorframe and Clark standing on the front steps.

“Not such a bad plan so far, is it?” Clark asked with a smirk.

“You mean pretending to be in a relationship?” Bruce smirked back. “It hasn’t gone up in flames yet, but given that we’ve only just begun, I’d hardly count that as a measure of success.”

“You can never just admit that I’m right, can you?” Clark took a few backward steps, keeping his gaze locked on Bruce as he put some distance between himself and the Manor. “Goodnight, Bruce,” he said, something soft in his voice that warmed Bruce from the inside even better than the whiskey.

“Goodnight.”

Clark took off into the sky, and Bruce stood there, staring at the spot where he’d disappeared from view, for a moment or two longer than necessary before stepping back into the house.

A photo of them circulated overnight, a pleasant surprise after their fake date to Solstice had gone unnoticed. It was just as convincing as the fundraiser photos, Bruce gazing at Clark over their drinks as Clark was red-faced with laughter. The low light of the club didn’t reveal much, but Bruce had to admit that his expression in the photo – a small, sincere smile, eyes trained on Clark’s mouth instead of the comic performing onstage – made him look positively smitten. Clark’s instincts had been even more correct than Bruce had expected; at least visually, they made a great couple.

* * *

_ Clark _

After the photos of them at the comedy club went up online, the media finally figured out who Clark was. Just as Clark had predicted, the gossip websites and blogs seemed disappointed not only that Clark was a virtual nobody – a  _ newspaper _ reporter, not even something a bit more exciting like a local news anchor or weatherman, somebody who was on TV instead of just in print – but that they couldn’t find any dirt to dig up on him. He’d been in two long-term relationships in his life with women who had nothing but good things to say about him, he was from a small town in the Midwest that no one had heard of, and he’d never in his life done anything illegal. He didn’t even have any speeding tickets, because he never drove.

Even though the reporting (if celebrity gossip counted as reporting, which to Clark it very much did not) on him was minimal, it was still surreal to read about himself. It was strange, seeing which facts about him and his life that different outlets chose to highlight: “graduated with a bachelor’s degree in journalism from Metropolis University,” “reporter for the  _ Daily Planet _ ,” “born and raised in Smallville, Kansas,” “seems to have met Bruce Wayne covering various charity events in Gotham and Metropolis,” and, Clark’s favorite, “no apparent history of dating men.”

Lois called him up after the first article went up: “I assume this means you got Bruce to agree with your fake relationship plan?”

“Yes,” Clark confirmed. “Finally.” He had his phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, his arms laden with groceries on his way back from the store. It was easier to walk the few blocks to and from the grocery store than to find covert places to take off from so he could fly there and back without being seen. Besides, it was nice to feel a little normal every now and then.

“He took some convincing?” she asked.

“He had a lot of the same concerns you did. But after the photos of us at the Wayne Foundation fundraiser, I think he realized that every time we’re seen together, even if we aren’t orchestrating it, people are going to assume there’s something between us.”

“So you might as well use that to his advantage,” Lois observed. “Makes sense.”

“Evidently he thought so too. I’m glad. I finally feel like I can  _ do _ something. Even if it doesn't make that much of a difference. It makes a difference to me, not feeling useless anymore.”

He could hear Lois’ smile in her voice. “I’m sure it makes a difference to Bruce too,” she said.

The comedy club had been on Friday night, and their next “date” took them out to a late breakfast Sunday morning. This was Bruce’s choice; he wanted to give people the impression that they’d not only spent the night together, but were spending the whole weekend together. And Clark had agreed wholeheartedly, not just because it was a good idea, to let people speculate about what they’d spent the weekend doing, but also because he never said no to good breakfast food.

The restaurant Bruce selected was known for its (wildly overpriced) Sunday breakfast buffet: gooey cinnamon rolls, candied bacon, syrupy French toast, coffee roasted in-house, eggs prepared every way imaginable, and, of course, mimosas. As soon as Clark stepped through the door, his senses were bombarded in the best possible way. They walked in without a reservation, even though the line was out the door; again, Clark felt guilty for taking advantage of Bruce’s wealth and privilege, but the guilt only lasted as long as it took him to get to the breakfast buffet and see all his options laid out before him.

Piling his plate with fresh, savory breakfast foods, Clark was in heaven. “Have I ever told you breakfast is my favorite meal?” he said as they sat down.

“I don’t think you’ve mentioned it,” Bruce replied with a smile, pausing to thank the waitress who brought their drinks. “I’ve always thought it was overrated, but then I’m rarely awake early enough to have breakfast.”

“If you could smell this place as well as I could, you’d change your mind,” Clark insisted. “Besides, it reminds me of home. My mom used to make me breakfast every morning, even when I had to wake up at the crack of dawn to go to school. She still does, when I visit Smallville.”

In the beginning of their friendship, Clark had avoided the topic of his parents like a plague. He didn’t want to rub it in Bruce’s face that he’d had a happy, trauma-free childhood with two loving, living parents. The deaths of his biological parents didn’t quite compare; Clark couldn’t remember them, so his pain was more of a distant ache, a longing for what might have been. He hadn’t had his parents violently ripped away from him while he watched, fully old enough to remember the scene in vivid detail. It wasn’t the same at all.

But after spending time with Bruce, Clark had learned that Bruce didn’t mind if Clark brought up the subject of his parents or his childhood. So long as Clark avoided mentioning  _ Bruce _ ’s parents, he was in the clear. Bruce would even ask him about them sometimes, like he did now: “How often do you visit?”

“A lot more frequently than I would if I had to drive or buy a plane ticket every time,” Clark answered. “About once a month. Every other month, if work is busy. Their neighbors think they have the greatest son in the world.”

“I’ve seen no evidence to indicate that they don’t.”

Clark waved away the compliment, but he couldn’t deny that it felt good to hear. Bruce didn’t give praise often or easily, only when he truly meant it.

Their conversation trailed off as Clark’s attention turned to his food. He refilled his plate at least as many times as their waitress refilled Bruce’s champagne flute, and they both left having gotten what they wanted out of the meal.

Things went on like this for several more “dates” over the span of a few months. They went out to restaurants and bars, visited nearby wineries and breweries, perused art galleries, went for long walks in the park when the weather was nice and there were plenty of people out jogging or walking their dogs. They avoided any venue where they weren’t likely to be seen: dark and quiet movie theaters, secluded hiking trails.

Not every one of their fake dates ended up in the news. They had about a sixty percent success rate, though, which meant there were plenty of photos for the public and the press to share and speculate over. Clark read each and every article he found about the two of them, even though he knew it meant subjecting himself to the inevitable homophobia that more than a few celebrity gossip outlets aimed at him or Bruce. He even read the comments sections, which was where the real intolerance and hatred lived, but also where he found a surprising number of voices speaking up in his and Bruce’s defense.

After a while, though, Clark felt like he was reading the same things over and over again. What started to interest him even more were the photos themselves. Even though he was  _ in _ the photos, even though they depicted events he’d been physically present for and could recall his own memories of, it was interesting to see them from an outsider’s perspective.

There were the photos from the modern art exhibition, the pair of them standing side by side, Bruce leaning in to explain the deeper meaning behind the artist’s work – it was meant to be an anti-war message, apparently – to a confused and uncultured Clark, who looked at modern art and just saw nonsense. It would have been even better, Clark thought, if someone had snapped a photo of them walking from one surrealist sculpture to another; he remembered Bruce’s hand on his arm, guiding him as he explained the history of anti-war movements in modern art, from the First World War to the ongoing War in Iraq. Clark could understand the anti-war part; it was the art he didn’t have any experience with.

“You’re kind of an expert in this,” Clark said after standing by while Bruce carried on a lengthy and intelligent conversation with the artist about his work.

Bruce shrugged, leading Clark through the crowd by his arm again. “My mother was an art collector,” he said, low enough that only Clark would hear it. Clark masked his surprise. Bruce never volunteered information about his parents. “She especially liked anything with an anti-war message,” Bruce continued. They exited through the gallery’s front doors and emerged into the cool night air. It was quieter outside, despite the ever-present noises of the city. Clark was used to city noise. He was used to being in crowds, too, and having to filter through hundreds of overlapping conversations to focus on the person talking to him, but he didn’t prefer it.

Bruce reached for his jacket pocket before aborting the gesture halfway there and frowning. Clark was a perceptive person. He’d noticed that Bruce had stopped smoking since they’d started fake dating. Stopped smoking around Clark, anyway; Clark’s super senses picked up the distinctive smell lingering on Bruce’s clothes and knew Bruce hadn’t quit completely. But it was the thought that counted.

Feeling brave – and emboldened by the thought that Bruce liked him enough not to smoke around him, which probably meant he wouldn’t hate Clark for asking about his parents when Bruce had brought them up in the first place – Clark asked, “Any particular reason your mother was interested in anti-war art movements?”

“My mother’s family is Jewish. They originally came to America from Austria in the thirties. I’m sure you can imagine why.” Bruce looked Clark up and down. “I’m surprised you didn’t know. You’d think a journalist would have done his research.”

Clark had done plenty of research on Bruce in the past. He’d read everything there was to read about his parents’ deaths, and he was passingly familiar with the Waynes’ family history and the history of Wayne Enterprises, but it had never occurred to him to look into Bruce’s family history on his mother’s side. It seemed awfully sexist of him, in hindsight. “Does that make you Jewish?” Clark asked, out of curiosity.

“Ethnically, yes. Religiously…” Bruce shrugged a shoulder. “I wouldn’t describe myself as religious. We celebrated both Christian and Jewish holidays when I was growing up, though.”

Clark hadn’t known any of that, and it occurred to him that perhaps this would be an unforeseen benefit of his fake relationship plan: He and Bruce would have plenty of opportunities to get to know each other better. In the first several years of knowing each other, learning anything about Bruce – he was just Batman to Clark, at the time – on a personal level had seemed to Clark like an impossibility. After they’d revealed their secret identities to each other, Clark had obviously learned a lot more about Bruce, but Bruce had still never been particularly forthcoming about… well, anything. More recently, though, and especially since they’d both come out to each other, Clark felt a closeness between them that hadn’t been there before. He liked it.

Then there were the photos of them from their various walks in the park. The public parks of Gotham had nothing on the grounds of Wayne Manor, but they were trying to be seen, and the park was an excellent place for it. They would situate themselves in the busiest areas and occupy their time with conversation, and Clark thoroughly enjoyed it each time. The resulting photos were of them seated next to each other on a park bench, or walking next to each other. There was even one of Bruce looking on and smiling while Clark laughed and scratched an affectionate golden retriever while conversing with the dog’s owner.

“Sorry about that,” the owner said, referring to the way the dog had pulled on his leash mid-walk to stop and say hi to Bruce and Clark as they walked past. “Bernie loves people.”

“Did you have any pets growing up?” Bruce asked him after dog and owner left to continue their walk.

“Not unless you count farm animals. I’d love to get one, but given how busy I am all the time it’d have to be something that doesn’t mind being alone most of the time. Like a fish.”

“I’ve been assured cats are fairly self-sufficient,” Bruce offered.

Clark turned to grin at him, one eyebrow raised. He and Bruce didn’t talk about their love lives, really, even now that they were pretending to date, but everyone knew about Batman and Catwoman. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Only secondhand,” Bruce answered, unaffected by Clark’s teasing. “Catwoman would never trust me to watch her precious babies.”

There were plenty more photos where those came from, and each brought their own little memory. Clark had bookmarked all the articles about him and Bruce, saved the pictures to his computer. He knew the whole fake relationship thing had been his idea to begin with, but it still surprised him how much they looked like a real couple, without really trying. They hadn’t been photographed so much as holding hands, just being  _ near _ each other, but it was more than enough. The ease they both had around each other – especially Bruce, who was rarely at ease around anyone – could easily be mistaken for chemistry. The way they fit together, in an entirely platonic way of course – they worked well together, complemented each other, that was all – could easily be mistaken for something more.

This was going to be even easier than Clark had expected.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drew from what my bisexual friends’ have told me about their experiences for parts of this chapter so shout out to them, even though they do not know this and I will probably never let them read my fanfiction. Some things are only meant to be shared with like-minded strangers on the internet.

_ Bruce _

Bruce hadn’t told Alfred about what he was doing with Clark. He knew it was a mistake not to. Keeping secrets from Alfred was a dangerous game. Alfred had a very particular set of skills, and it didn’t just include butlering. It also included  _ knowing  _ things. Finding things out. Uncovering secrets. Bruce had learned this at an early age, and for the most part didn’t bother even trying to hide things from Alfred.

Bruce hadn’t really intended on keeping his fake relationship with Clark a secret from Alfred. How could he, when there were pictures of them all over the internet? No, he’d always planned on telling Alfred. He just… hadn’t gotten around to it yet.

It couldn’t wait much longer, though. Bruce knew that. Alfred didn’t pay attention to celebrity gossip – the only famous people he cared the least bit about were Bruce himself and the British royals – so it was likely he hadn’t seen what people were saying about Bruce and Clark, but that wouldn’t last forever.

Truth be told, Bruce wasn’t entirely sure why he was so hesitant to let Alfred in. He didn’t think Alfred would be judgmental about it. Alfred had never objected to Bruce lying to the media and the public about being Batman, or anything else for that matter. He even helped Bruce construct and reinforce his lies. Alfred wouldn’t object to Bruce lying to the world about being in a relationship. And Alfred liked Clark. He’d spent the majority of Bruce’s adolescence and early adult years pestering Bruce about his nonexistent social life, and now that Bruce had a genuine friend in Clark, Alfred couldn’t be happier.

Maybe  _ that _ was why Bruce didn’t want to involve Alfred. He wasn’t worried Alfred would disapprove; quite the opposite. He was worried Alfred would like the idea of Bruce pretending to be in a relationship with Clark so much that he’d forget about the “pretending” part. Alfred got very… passionate about the idea of Bruce being in a healthy, long-term, supportive relationship. It didn’t come up often, but when it did, Bruce had to forcefully remind Alfred that he was a grown-up now, and he would make his own decisions,  _ especially _ when it came to his love life, and if he wanted Alfred’s input he’d ask for it.

It was approximately three months into Bruce and Clark’s fake relationship when Bruce finally decided he couldn’t put off telling Alfred any longer. He and Clark hadn’t discussed it yet, but Bruce was thinking they should probably put the next phase of their plan into motion sometime soon, start working toward making their “relationship” public. They’d captured the media and the public’s attention to an extent just by being seen with each other time and time again, but if they didn’t give the press something tangible to work with soon, everyone would start to lose interest. There was only so much that celebrity gossip reporters could write about two men  _ being near _ each other in public.

If Clark agreed with Bruce, about it being about time to kick things up a notch, there really wouldn’t be any hiding what they were doing from Alfred any longer. So if Bruce wanted Alfred to hear about it from him, and not find out some other way, he needed to tell him soon. Not just soon.  _ Immediately _ .

He went downstairs late one Saturday morning – early afternoon, really, but given Bruce’s typical weekend schedule this was a perfectly reasonable hour for him to be just getting up – and found Alfred in the kitchen, ready with a pot of coffee as he always was. He poured Bruce a steaming mug of the stuff, black as the night, which Bruce accepted gratefully.

“Good morning, Alfred,” he said, voice scratchy with sleep. He sat at the kitchen counter and let the caffeine seep slowly into his veins, easing him into the land of the living.

Alfred checked his watch and quirked a smile. “Yes, I suppose it is still technically morning, Master Bruce, if only for a few minutes longer. Would you like me to prepare you something to eat?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Are you in the mood for breakfast or lunch?”

For some reason, Bruce thought about when he’d taken Clark to that breakfast buffet and Clark had told him breakfast was his favorite meal of the day. As Bruce had said to Clark then, he wasn’t much of a breakfast person – breakfast, to Bruce, typically consisted of a protein bar, at least three cups of coffee, and not much else – but for some reason he still answered, “Breakfast.” Alfred made excellent breakfast food, and it occurred to Bruce to invite Clark over one morning so Alfred could cook him a full English. Not as one of their “dates,” of course, since a private breakfast in Wayne Manor wouldn’t help them achieve their goal of capturing the public’s attention. Just a friendly invitation, because he knew it was the sort of thing Clark would enjoy.

Alfred turned on the stovetop and withdrew a carton of eggs and a package of bacon from the fridge. “Do you and Master Clark have any plans this weekend?” he asked. Bruce knew Alfred had noticed that Bruce was spending a lot more time with Clark. He hoped that didn’t mean Alfred had figured out what they were doing.

“Tonight, actually, yes,” Bruce said, carefully nonchalant.

“Splendid,” Alfred was facing away from Bruce, but Bruce could still hear the smile in his voice.  “The two of you have been seeing much more of each other lately. I know you’re both busy men, but it’s nice to see you making your personal life a priority.”

Okay. Good. Alfred didn’t know. He just thought Bruce was making time for a friend. Well, Bruce decided, now was as good a time to tell him as ever. “Yes, well,” he began, “Clark has been very helpful with my PR crisis lately.”

Alfred glanced over his shoulder, surprised. “Has he? That’s good to hear.”

“That’s actually the reason we’ve been seeing so much of each other. I meant to tell you sooner, so you’d hear it from me instead of reading about it in some shitty tabloid.”

Alfred scoffed derisively. “You know I don’t read that tripe.”

Yes. Bruce knew. “Clark and I have been pretending to be in a relationship,” Bruce continued, casually, like this was a perfectly normal thing to do, not the least bit unusual, not even worth commenting on, really. “It was his idea, to give the media the impression that I’m capable of commitment and force everyone to adjust to my sexuality.”

Alfred paused, turned to look at Bruce, his expression inscrutable. Alfred had quite the poker face, and when he chose to deploy it, not even Bruce could decipher how he was feeling. It was unsettling, and Bruce got the feeling it was a bit like how other people felt when Bruce used his poker face on them.

“Well,” Alfred finally said. “It’s certainly not the typical way of doing things.”

“Yes, well, obviously it would be better if I could have gotten into a real relationship with someone,” Bruce admitted, “But we all know there’s no way that was going to happen any time soon.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” Alfred said, waving a spatula dismissively and turning his attention back to the bacon and eggs. “What I meant was, in my day, the primary reason famous men would enter into pretend relationships was to trick everyone into believing they were straight. But you’re doing the opposite.”

It was an interesting observation. As much as there was still plenty of bigotry in the world, it was a reminder that things were certainly better than they’d been mere decades ago. “I hadn’t thought about that,” Bruce said.

“My only concern,” Alfred mused, “Is that you don’t get poor Master Clark involved in more than he can handle. He’s not used to your way of life. I could easily see him getting in over his head.”

Leave it to Alfred to find a way to worry about the Man of Steel. Another thing he and Bruce had in common. “I know,” Bruce agreed. “That’s one reason I was hesitant to do this. It was his idea, though, like I said, and he persuaded me to give it a try.”

“And he doesn’t mind letting the rest of the world think he’s attracted to men? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, other than of course the terrible way people will treat you for it.”

Bruce paused before answering. Was it his place to tell Alfred that Clark was bisexual? Alfred already knew Clark was Superman, and soon the whole world – or everyone who paid attention to celebrity gossip, at least – would know Clark was bisexual. But Bruce knew it generally wasn’t good etiquette to come out  _ for _ someone.

When Bruce didn’t respond right away, Alfred turned again to look at him, interpreting his silence as an answer. “ _ Is _ Clark attracted to men?” he asked. Bruce deployed his poker face, the one he’d learned from Alfred at a young age, but it was too late. The wheels in Alfred’s head were already turning.

“Interesting,” Alfred said slowly. Once again, there was no telling what he was thinking, but he was definitely thinking something. He turned back to the stove, slid three strips of bacon and two sunny side up eggs onto a plate. “Your breakfast is ready,” he said, setting the plate down in front of Bruce. “Although it’s no longer morning.”

“Thank you, Alfred.”

Neither of them brought up Bruce and Clark’s fake relationship or Clark’s sexuality again, but Bruce got the distinct impression Alfred hadn’t stopped thinking about it.

Bruce met Clark at Solstice again that evening. Clark was waiting for him just outside, likely having flown there. Once again, they walked in without a reservation. Bruce knew it made Clark feel uneasy when they did this, but making a reservation under the name “Wayne” only gave restaurants time to prepare some sort of special treatment for him, which Bruce was pretty sure Clark would like even less. (He could make a reservation under Clark’s name. Maybe he would do that. Assuming he remembered to.)

“Back at this place again,” Clark observed after the host led them to their table. “It must be a favorite of yours.”

“The owner knew my father,” Bruce explained. “He’s not here most nights, but I like to give him my business as often as possible.”

It was the second time they’d spoken about Bruce’s parents on one of their “dates,” both times because Bruce brought them up. Bruce didn’t do this with most people, but Clark was always respectful about the topic, avoiding it carefully without making it obvious that he was avoiding it, and when Bruce had mentioned his mother at the art exhibition, Clark’s questions hadn’t been prying or invasive. Now he was bringing up his father, and Bruce only realized after doing it that he meant it as a sort of test.

“I’ve read that your father had connections all over the city,” Clark said. “Not just among Gotham’s elites, but regular people. Business owners. I get the impression he was extremely well-liked.”

“He was,” Bruce said. “He made friends wherever he went.” At least, that’s what everyone who’d known his father always said. As a kid, it had made Bruce feel good to know his parents had been good people, people who other people liked and missed. It was a small comfort, but every little bit counted in those days.

Now that he was older, not yet the age his father had been when he’d died but getting closer every year, the thought that his father was liked by all who knew him felt more and more like an expectation Bruce would never live up to. Bruce could put on a convincing fake smile, shake hands and be polite, but he lacked his father’s ability to make genuine connections with people. He simply wasn’t trusting enough.

And now there were people – on the internet, in Gotham high society – pointing to Bruce’s sexuality as yet another way he’d tarnished his family legacy. And though Bruce would never admit it, that hurt in a way that all the crude names and offensive stereotypes and proclamations that he was going to hell didn’t, because truthfully he didn’t know how his parents would feel about his sexuality if they were still alive. He could ask Alfred, but he didn’t completely trust Alfred to tell him the truth if the truth wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Alfred never spoke ill of Thomas and Martha Wayne, especially not to Bruce.

Neither of them said anything more until the waiter came and took their orders. Bruce noted that, once again, Clark had reacted entirely appropriately to Bruce bringing up the subject of his parents. No questions about their deaths, no questions about his  _ feelings _ . If Bruce mentioning his father had been a test, Clark had passed.

“Actually,” Bruce added, changing the subject so he wouldn’t spiral into thinking about his parents for the rest of the night, a habit he’d never quite broken even after all these years and probably never would, “I thought I’d invite you back here tonight because this is where we first decided to put your plan into action, and now I want to discuss moving on to the next phase of it.” It was a bit of needless symbolism, but everyone who knew Bruce – or more accurately, everyone who knew Batman – knew he had a penchant for symbolism. “It’s been a few months, and we’ve definitely captured the media’s attention, but I’m not sure how much longer we’ll keep it without giving them a bit more to work with.”

Clark nodded, agreeing immediately. “I’ve been thinking the articles about us have started to get a bit boring and repetitive, so that’s probably a good idea.”

Bruce was glad they were on the same page. He didn’t want to have to convince Clark to do any of this. This whole plan was Clark’s idea, Bruce had only agreed to go along with it after Clark had repeatedly asked him to, and Bruce would only let it continue if Clark was one hundred percent on board with everything they were doing. That was the deal Bruce had made with himself.

“I want to remind you,” Bruce said seriously, “That we both agreed either one of us could back out of this at any time. Now is the perfect time to do that if you’re having any second thoughts.”

Clark leaned forward, meeting Bruce’s gaze with a reassuring smile. “I appreciate the concern, but I have no intention of backing out.”

No, Bruce hadn’t expected he would. But he had to give Clark the opportunity, just in case.

“Right.” Bruce paused to thank the waiter, who’d just laid their dishes in front of them. “We never explicitly discussed physical boundaries. Is there anything you’re not comfortable doing?”

Clark seemed to give this question careful consideration, which Bruce appreciated. “Not particularly,” Clark said. “I mean, it’s not like we’re filming a sex tape. I’ve certainly made out with people I don’t have feelings for, although it has been a while, and this time I’ll have to worry about making it look convincing.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” Bruce replied. He didn’t share Clark’s concerns about making their intimacy look convincing, but then, he had his vast experience of hooking up with near-strangers to draw from. “We can talk more about it later. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.”

Clark smiled again, though not as reassuringly as before. A little red flag of concern waved in the back of Bruce’s mind, something he’d bring up later if he suspected Clark wasn’t being completely open and honest with him. “Sounds like we are.”

* * *

_ Clark _

From the moment the idea of pretending to date Bruce had first entered his mind, Clark had known it would involve a degree of physical intimacy. They’d discussed it, briefly, on their first “date” to Solstice, and Clark had meant what he’d said then: He hardly considered it a burden or a hardship to have to make out with a man as undeniably attractive as Bruce Wayne.

And he meant what he’d said at their second “date” to Solstice, as well: He’d made out with people he didn’t have feelings for. He’d done even more with people he didn’t have feelings for. Although he hadn’t done it often, and he hadn’t done it in a very long time. Outside of his two long-term relationships, with Lana and Lois, he’d been on a lot of optimistic first dates that had gone nowhere and he’d had a handful of one-night stands in college, when everyone else was doing it and so it had felt like the thing to do.

Clark expected it to be awkward, being physically intimate with someone he only thought of as a friend (albeit an objectively attractive one). But he could handle awkward. He had plenty of practice; having to hide the fact that he was a super-powered alien from almost everyone in his life had put him in more than his fair share of awkward situations.

So he wasn’t worried about awkwardness. And he didn’t have Bruce’s experience being with people he had no real feelings for, but he had  _ some _ experience. And at least he’d be making out with – or kissing, hugging, holding hands, whatever they decided to do to secure their image as a happy couple – someone attractive. When Clark had first come up with his fake relationship plan, he hadn’t foreseen any other possible complications. He thought he had his bases covered.

But now that he and Bruce had actually had a conversation about it, had decided to move forward with the next phase of the plan, he was having second thoughts. Not about the plan itself, or his participation in it; he still wanted to help Bruce, and he still couldn’t think of another way he could do that, and they’d been so successful thus far at capturing the press’ attention. He couldn’t back out now, and he didn’t want to. No, he was just having second thoughts about the part of the plan where he had to convincingly act like he was in a committed relationship with Bruce Wayne.

Because after their second “date” to Solstice, Clark had opened the folder on his computer that contained all the photos he could find online taken of the two of them together since they started pretending to date, and he’d given them another look, and he’d realized his initial assessment wasn’t entirely accurate. The photos were convincing, yes; they succeeded in making them look intimate. But that was almost entirely down to  _ Bruce _ , not Clark. In every single picture, Bruce had somehow succeeded in looking like he was head over heels, like he couldn’t take his eyes off Clark. He had a certain intensity about him, something Clark couldn’t hope to imitate. He looked like a man falling in love. Clark, on the other hand, succeeded merely in looking like he was content to be along for the ride.

It made sense, when Clark thought about it. Clark was a good liar only because he had a lifetime of experience; he’d been living a lie since the day he crash-landed in a corn field. But even after all those years, lying still didn’t come naturally to him. It never felt  _ good _ . Clark had a strong moral compass, and even though he knew some lies were necessary, telling them always felt a little bit wrong. When Clark lied, people believed him not because the lie was perfectly convincing but because Clark seemed like such a good, honest person, and not at all like the type of person who would tell a bold-faced lie.

Bruce was completely different. Lying  _ did _ come naturally to him, at least as far as Clark could tell. If Clark focused, he could sometimes tell when people were lying by listening to their heartbeat and breathing, although it was hardly a reliable system; people’s heart rate elevated for so many different reasons, and lying was only one of them. But it had taught Clark one thing, which was that Bruce could construct a whole story of lies and his heart wouldn’t skip a damn beat. When Bruce lied, he put effort behind it. He did his research, he committed to the act, and most importantly – again, as far as Clark knew – he didn’t feel a shred of guilt over it.

Clark had assumed his experience living a double life was enough to prepare him for keeping up a fake relationship with Bruce, but now that they were about to move on to the phase of the plan where their “relationship” would become public – now that he would have to worry about a level of public scrutiny he hadn’t faced before – Clark wasn’t so sure. When he and Bruce did couple-y things in public, would it look convincing? Would it look real?

The last thing Clark wanted was for the whole scheme –  _ his _ idea, the one he’d convinced Bruce to go along with – to come crashing down because he wasn’t a good enough actor.

The next time Clark and Bruce met, it wasn’t for a “date.” Bruce texted him a few days after Solstice and asked if they could meet and talk about “the next phase of the plan” a bit more. Clark flew over to Gotham one evening later that week, and they ended up talking in Bruce’s study in Wayne Manor over drinks and a plate of hors d'oeuvres, courtesy of Alfred.

“I take it you’ve seen the video that forced me to come out in the first place,” Bruce began, not quite meeting Clark’s gaze when he said it. Clark had never asked who the other man in the video was, and Bruce had never offered to tell him. Clark wondered how that man felt, knowing he was partially responsible for the PR mess Bruce had ended up in.

“I have,” Clark said.

“If you’re willing…” Bruce hesitated a moment before plowing on. “I think we should try to get caught in a similar manner. We shouldn’t replicate the situation exactly – that would be too obvious – but clearly it’s an effective way to get people’s attention.”

Clark thought about the video. He’d watched it so many times it was imprinted on his brain. He thought about being the “other man” in a video like that with Bruce. Thinking about it felt… strange. Which wasn’t surprising. It  _ was _ strange, this situation they were in. But that wasn’t enough of a reason to back out. “I’m willing to do that,” he said.

Bruce didn’t appear convinced. “You seem hesitant. If you’re not comfortable doing it—”

“It’s not that I’m uncomfortable,” Clark interrupted. It  _ would _ be awkward, yes, but that wasn’t his concern. “I’m just worried I won’t be able to make it convincing. If this falls apart because I mess up, I’d feel terrible. Especially since it was my idea in the first place.”

Bruce didn’t reply right away. For a long moment, he just looked at Clark, the wheels of his brain turning behind an unreadable expression. “Clark, have you—” he began, then cut himself off.

“Have I what?” Clark prompted.

“I shouldn’t ask,” Bruce said with a shake of his head, but Clark pressed on.

“You can ask me anything, Bruce. I won’t be offended.”

“Have you ever actually been in any kind of relationship with another man? Have you dated one?”

Ah. So  _ that _ was what Bruce thought Clark’s problem was. He thought Clark was nervous because he was inexperienced. Which he was, compared to Bruce. But again, that wasn’t what he was worried about.

Bruce’s question made Clark think, though. He  _ hadn’t _ ever been in a relationship with a man. He’d never really even dated one, in the traditional sense. He’d messed around a bit in college, again, because it had seemed like the thing to do, and because he’d had these  _ feelings _ he’d spent so long repressing and felt like he could finally start to investigate, but after graduation, nothing.

“I experimented in college,” he told Bruce. “But since then, no. I haven’t.”

“Any particular reason?”

This, Clark had thought about. Every time he decided to put himself out there and start dating, he’d considered whether he should try to date both men and women, or just stick to women like he usually did, and he always came to the same conclusion. “It’s easier to date women. It’s easier to find women to date. It’s easier to be seen in public with women. It’s just easier to do what society expects me to do.”

Bruce nodded. “I understand that.”

“I know you do. You’re one of the few people who do.”

“And have you been satisfied with that?” Bruce prompted .

Again, Clark considered the question before answering, but he didn’t have to think about it too much. He knew the answer. “No. I constantly feel like I’m repressing a part of myself. But I feel like that all the time, and not just about my sexuality.”

“I understand that too.”

For another long moment, they looked at each other. Clark remembered the first time, early on in their relationship, that it had occurred to him that he and Bruce – Batman, at the time – had more in common than either of them realized. And the more they got to know each other, the longer that list grew.

Maybe Bruce had a point. Maybe the fact that Bruce was a man, and Clark hadn’t ever been with a man publicly, was more of a source of anxiety than Clark was willing to admit.

“We can wait,” Bruce said, breaking the silence. “On trying to get caught. We can take things slow.”

“No,” Clark insisted. “You’re right about needing to keep the media’s attention. Right now all people have to go off of is speculation and rumors. We need something incriminating enough that would plausibly force us to come forward.” He paused. There was something else he’d thought about asking for, knowing they were going to have this conversation, but it was just about the most awkward possible question to ask. Still, it was like he’d told himself: He could handle awkward. “There is one thing that might be helpful for me, if it’s not too weird of a request,” he added.

“Very few things are ‘too weird’ for either of us,” Bruce pointed out.

“Good point.” Clark took a breath. “Okay. I fully realize I sound like a middle schooler saying this, but… could we practice?”

Clark could tell Bruce was fighting hard to keep from reacting to that. “Practice… making out?”

“I don’t want the first time we do this to be something that potentially ends up spreading all over the internet,” Clark reasoned. “It would be one thing if we were just trying to look like two strangers hooking up for the first time. But we’re trying to make it look like we’re in a committed relationship. I’m not sure how easy that will be to fake, at least for me.”

Bruce nodded, apparently seeing the logic in Clark’s argument. “In that case, we should probably videotape it, so we know how it looks from an outsider’s perspective.”

Now it was Clark who had to fight from laughing at the absurdity of their situation. “Videotape us. Making out.” He shook his head. What had he gotten them into? “Do you own a video camera? I don’t think this would be an appropriate use of the one I have for work.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ Bruce _

Bruce did have a video camera. Neither he nor Clark saw any reason to delay the inevitable, so Bruce got it out and set it up right there in the study, propped it up on a stack of books on his desk. He turned to Clark, who was sitting in an armchair, watching. The casual observer would have thought Clark looked calm, unbothered, but Bruce knew him well enough to catch the tension behind his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands gripped the armrests.

“Ready?” Bruce asked, feeling more than a little ridiculous but keeping his voice and demeanor professional, like they were about to negotiate a business deal and not… what they were actually about to do. Bruce was used to playing the role of someone who knew what he was doing. It wasn’t always true, but he could fake it like a pro.

Even though the situation was unprecedented, Bruce wasn’t nervous. Unlike Clark, he didn’t doubt his ability to make this look convincing. He’d made out with so many people he couldn’t even guess the number, and he’d had real feelings for almost none of them. His only prerequisite for hooking up with someone was that he found them physically attractive, and Clark met that criteria – exceeded it – so Bruce wouldn’t even have to fake his enjoyment.

But if Clark wanted to “practice,” far be it from Bruce to refuse him. He thought Clark had done a fine job of looking convincing in public thus far, but Bruce realized for most people it was one thing to have to spend time and appear close with someone they only had platonic feelings for and another thing entirely to be physically intimate with that person.

“Ready,” Clark said. “How should we…?” He gestured vaguely between them, and Bruce caught his drift.

“Standing,” Bruce said. “Easier that way.”

Clark nodded and stood. His eyes swept over Bruce. Bruce couldn’t discern what he was feeling. It had never occurred to Bruce to wonder if Clark found him attractive. Most people did, but it was a bit too arrogant, even for Bruce, to assume Clark was one of them.

“The camera’s at the right angle?” Clark asked.

Bruce checked, even though he knew it was.

“Okay.” Clark took a breath, and stepped into Bruce’s space. Bruce responded in kind, until there were mere inches between them. At first Bruce thought Clark was avoiding making eye contact, but then he realized Clark was looking at his mouth. Bruce rested a hand on Clark’s waist, felt Clark lean into it slightly. Seconds ticked by. Time had slowed to a crawl. Clark’s gaze flicked upward, catching Bruce’s eyes, and Bruce tried his best to look reassuring.

Clark’s hand came up to cradle Bruce’s jaw, and he leaned in, and his eyes slid shut. Bruce closed the rest of the distance between them.

Their mouths met, softly at first. Bruce brought his free hand to the back of Clark’s neck to guide him to the right angle. With the hand at Clark’s waist, he drew their bodies together, not fully pressed against each other – it wasn’t that kind of kiss – but close enough that Bruce could feel Clark’s chest rise and fall with his breathing. Even with his eyes closed, Bruce was aware of Clark’s hand hovering next to him, like Clark couldn’t decide where to put it, before it settled on Bruce’s arm.

When he got the sense that Clark had settled into the kiss, Bruce opened his mouth and felt Clark immediately do the same. Bruce didn’t deepen it any more than that. He let his thoughts go fuzzy, something he only did in moments like this. He was so used to keeping his mind sharp and ready at all times, always feeling like he had to be prepared for the worst, always feeling like he had to stay three steps ahead of any situation he found himself in. It felt good to let go, if only for a brief time. It always felt good, no matter who he was with, but it felt even better with Clark.

Kissing Clark was unlike any kiss Bruce had shared with anyone before. Physical intimacy always required Bruce to let his guard down; it was the only part of the process he was still uncomfortable with after all the times he’d done it. But letting his guard down now didn’t feel uncomfortable at all.

Letting his guard down around Clark, Bruce realized, hadn’t felt uncomfortable in a long time.

They broke apart after what could have been seconds or minutes or hours. Their eyes were locked on each other, both reluctant to look away.

Bruce took it upon himself to break the spell. He took a step back, and the moment shattered like glass. Clark blinked several times and Bruce reached for the video camera, stopped the recording, and gestured for Clark to take a look at the footage with him.

Though Bruce had just lived it, witnessing the kiss was a completely different experience. He had to admit, it very much looked like a first kiss, especially on Clark’s end, though Bruce hadn’t expected much else. It lacked the level of familiarity one would expect from two people who’d supposedly been dating for a few months, though, Bruce noted, it shouldn’t appear  _ overly _ familiar, either. At this stage in their “relationship” they’d be just starting to get a handle on who the other person was, just starting to peel back the shiny veneer everyone put on in the beginning of a relationship, when they were constantly on their best behavior. But how to convey that in a kiss?

Clark was right. It would be tough to get this exactly right.

“I don’t think this is quite what we’re going for,” Clark said. He glanced sideways at Bruce. “And I don’t think it counted as making out, either, if we want to get technical.”

“I wanted to let you ease into it. Should we try again?”

There was less lead-up this time; Bruce set the video camera back in its place, took Clark by the arm and pulled Clark against him. Clark had less than half a second to look surprised before Bruce brought their mouths together again, nowhere near as soft as the first kiss. It was open-mouthed from the start, and Bruce’s free hand was in Clark’s hair, and he could sense the exact moment when Clark shifted gears, because Clark put both hands on Bruce’s hips and now their bodies  _ were _ pressed against each other. Bruce felt the brush of Clark’s tongue against his own, and he tilted his head to give Clark a better angle.

If the first kiss had made Bruce realize how comfortable he was with Clark, this one made him think about Clark in a completely different way. Bruce was used to hooking up with people quite regularly, but he hadn’t done any of that since being forced to come out. He hadn’t wanted to risk being seen with anyone when he was trying to lay low and do damage control, and then he’d started pretending to date Clark, and he couldn’t be seen with anyone else because he was supposed to be in a relationship.

All that to say, it had been a while since Bruce had been with anyone, and his body was remembering how good it felt to have someone else’s hands on him, someone else’s body pressed against his, someone else’s tongue in his mouth. On a rational level, he knew kissing was all that was going to happen between him and Clark. It was all that was going to happen that night; it was all that was going to happen  _ ever _ . But Bruce’s brain was having a hard time communicating that concept to the rest of him.

Clark pulled suddenly away from Bruce. Bruce’s concern activated immediately – shit, he’d gotten into it – but as he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, Clark said, “Alfred’s coming.”

Bruce’s concern that he’d somehow offended Clark was gone in an instant, replaced by a new concern that Alfred would walk in, see them, and somehow, in that ineffable way of his, know exactly what they’d been doing. And Bruce could try to explain to Alfred that it wasn’t what it looked like and it didn’t mean anything, but once Alfred got an idea into his head, there was no persuading him otherwise.

They had just enough time to compose themselves, and for Bruce to throw the video camera into one of his desk drawers, before the doors to the study opened and Alfred walked in, carrying a plate of sandwiches.

Alfred stopped halfway through the door. His gaze flicked between Bruce and Clark. His expression was unreadable.

“Pardon me, Master Bruce,” he said after a long moment of tense silence, coming fully into the room and setting the sandwiches down on the desk. “It’s getting quite late and I thought the two of you might like something more substantial.” He stepped back toward the door, still glancing between them, from Bruce to Clark and back again, then to their empty tumblers, ice melting in the expensive crystal glasses. “Can I bring either of you anything more to drink?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Alfred,” Clark said, managing a smile that only looked strained because Bruce knew what to look for.

“I’m also fine,” Bruce said, gaze barely leaving Clark.

After another long and awkward pause, Alfred nodded and withdrew. “Very well, sir.”

They both waited a minute or two after Alfred left and shut the door behind him before speaking. “Thanks for the warning,” Bruce said.

Clark looked at him for a moment before cracking a tentative smile. “I didn’t want Alfred walking in on that any more than you did,” he said, the strangeness of what they’d just been doing – the strangeness and the unexpected… niceness – hanging large and obvious between them, the elephant in the room. “Does he know what we’re doing? The fake relationship?”

“He does. I told him.”

Clark nodded. “Probably a good call.” He broke Bruce’s gaze, dug his cell phone out of his pocket, glanced at the screen. “I should go,” he said, though not quite definitively, like he was waiting for Bruce to disagree with him.

Bruce decided he’d had enough awkwardness for one night. Maybe they hadn’t yet reached the point where they could execute a perfectly convincing kiss, but any additional “practice” would have to wait. Besides, if the descending darkness outside was anything to go by, it was getting late, and Bruce would have to go out on patrol soon. “I’ll walk you out.”

They walked to the front entrance in silence. Bruce opened the door for Clark. Halfway through exiting, Clark paused, as if remembering something. “Let me know if the second video is any more convincing than the first,” he said.

“I will,” Bruce replied.

“Have a good night.”

“Likewise.”

Once Clark had taken off and disappeared into the deep blue of the night sky, Bruce made his way back through the house to the kitchen, where Alfred was already washing the dishes and putting the uneaten sandwiches he’d made into Ziploc bags in the fridge to save for later. He looked up when Bruce entered the room, and Bruce leveled him with a glare.

“Not one word,” he said sternly.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re referring to, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, but the twinkle of amusement in his eyes gave him away. “I trust you and Master Clark enjoyed yourselves this evening?”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response.

He went out on patrol, came home, ate both uneaten sandwiches. showered, slept. He forgot completely about the second video of himself and Clark until the next morning – afternoon, technically – when he woke up. After breakfast, he went to the study, fished the camera out of the desk drawer he’d carelessly tossed it into, and played the second video.

It still wasn’t exactly the vibe he and Clark were going for, but it was much closer. The first kiss had looked too clean, too cautious, too respectful. This one was a little bit looser, a little bit hastier. Bruce looked like he couldn’t get enough of Clark. Clark looked like he wanted to drown in Bruce.

They were definitely getting somewhere.

* * *

_ Clark _

When Clark got home that night, his heart was still racing. He didn’t stop to let himself think about what had just happened at Wayne Manor. He got ready for bed swiftly and efficiently: clothes off, pajamas on, teeth brushed (his parents had made him brush his teeth twice a day every day even though his teeth were as impervious to damage as the rest of him, and by this point in Clark’s life it was a habit).

Only when he was lying in his bed in the dark with nothing else to focus on did the thoughts come creeping in.

Clark had liked kissing Bruce. He’d liked it a lot. He’d known, on some level, that he would like it. He’d always thought Bruce was attractive, and surely, Clark had reasoned, Bruce had to be a good kisser, after all the experience he’d had. But knowing he was going to like it and actually having done it and liked it were two completely separate things. Now that Clark knew what it felt like, to kiss Bruce Wayne, there was no going back.

And they had been such different experiences, the first kiss and the second. The first had been warm and inviting, slow and satisfying. It was softer and gentler than anything Clark had expected from a man like Bruce. It was a proper first kiss, something out of a movie, something achingly romantic like a Jane Austen film.

And the second kiss… just thinking about it sent a thrill down Clark’s spine. The second kiss had been much more in line with Clark’s expectations. It was fuel for a set of fantasies Clark hadn’t been fully willing to admit to himself that he’d been harboring ever since he’d learned Bruce was Batman. Pretty face, deep voice, the body of a crimefighter; who wouldn’t find the man attractive?

It was… strange, to think about. On multiple levels. First, because Bruce was his friend, and though Clark didn’t think there was necessarily anything wrong with being attracted to a friend – again, he and Lois were just friends ever since they’d broken up, but that didn’t mean Clark still didn’t find her attractive – there was a big difference between quietly finding a friend attractive and actually kissing them, even if the kissing was meant to be fake, meant to convince the rest of the world that they were more than what they were.

And second, because, well, the more Clark thought about it, the more he thought Bruce might’ve been right when he’d assumed part of the reason Clark was starting to have second thoughts about this whole fake relationship plan was that he hadn’t been with a man, in any kind of way, in a very long time. And they were about to move into the phase of the plan where they would go public with their relationship. And Clark had thought he was ready for that, ready to come out to the rest of the world, sick of keeping so many parts of himself a secret, but maybe he wasn’t. Not completely, anyway.

He checked the time on his phone. He needed to talk to someone about this. Not Bruce, even though he knew Bruce would understand. And it wasn’t too late. Lois would probably still be up. Her definition of “bedtime” was almost as flexible as Bruce’s was.

She picked up immediately. “Hey Clark. What’s up?”

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Not at all. What do you need?”

Clark held the phone – a beaten up BlackBerry he was determined to hold on to until it stopped functioning entirely, because phones were getting way too expensive these days and it was the principle of the thing – up against his ear and leaned back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s about the fake relationship,” he began. “Things have been going so well, and so far I’ve been completely fine with everything we’ve done and everything people have said about us. Well, not  _ fine _ with what people have said about us, but I can handle it.”

“That’s good,” Lois said encouragingly, but with a hint of hesitation in her voice, because of course she knew Clark hadn’t called her this late at night just to talk about how everything was fine and dandy.

“It is. In fact,” Clark continued, “It’s going so well we’ve decided it’s almost time for us to make things public. Which was the whole point of this plan in the first place.”

“But now that it’s actually time to do that,” Lois ventured, speaking slowly into the phone, “You’re not sure about it.”

“Exactly.” If Lois had a superpower, it would be reading minds.

“What part are you not sure about? The media attention?”

“The media attention has been okay so far. I think I’m starting to get used to it. It’s the coming out part. Which is ridiculous, because I knew all along that it would have to happen, and you and Bruce both warned me. I thought I was ready.”

“Clark, if you’re not ready to come out, you don’t have to,” Lois said firmly. “And I don’t know Bruce personally, but from what you’ve told me about him, I’m pretty sure he’d say the same thing.”

“He would.”

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I get that you want to help a friend. But you have to remember, if Bruce is anywhere near the friend to you that you are to him, he would not want you to do something like this if you don’t want to do it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Clark protested, because it wasn’t that at all. “I very much want to. Not just to help Bruce. I thought I’d be content staying in the closet for the rest of my life, only coming out to the people who are really important to me. But Bruce and I had a conversation, and I realized, I’ve been avoiding dating other men for years because I knew if I ended up meeting someone and liking them and wanting to build a relationship with them, and they happened to be male… it’s not like I could keep a relationship like that a secret. I mean, I could, people have done that, for most of history that’s what people have had to do, but I wouldn’t want to. And because of that, I’ve been avoiding anything that could get me into that situation. I’ve only dated women, because it felt safer. And I like women, but it has always made me feel a little…” he searched for the right word, “Trapped.”

“I can see how that would feel…” Lois also paused to search for the right word, “Stifling? Is that a good word for it? Claustrophobic? I’m just using the metaphor of being in the closet. The emotional equivalent of being alone in a small, dark room.”

“Yes. That’s exactly it.” Whoever had first come up with the closet metaphor was a genius, Clark decided. It was incredibly accurate.

“Let me see if I understand,” Lois said, and not for the first time Clark was grateful to have a friend like Lois, who always tried to understand Clark even if she didn’t have the same experiences. “On the one hand, the idea of coming out to the entire world understandably makes you feel nervous. But on the other hand, it’s also made you realize how unsatisfied you are with your current status quo. You don’t want to be trapped anymore, but you also know that coming out would change a lot of things and once that happens, there’s no putting the genie back in the bottle.”

“You’ve pretty much nailed it.” Again: mind reading.

“And it probably doesn’t help that you’ve had to live with another, even bigger secret that you  _ definitely _ can’t ever tell the rest of the world about.” Lois hummed into the phone, thinking. “Well, Clark, I can’t make that decision for you, but you know I’ll support you no matter what you do.”

Yeah. He knew. “Thanks.”

“Maybe you could…” Lois cut herself off, then started again. “Okay, feel free to tell me this is a stupid idea, but maybe you could come out to everyone in the office first? You know everyone there likes you, and I don’t think anyone we work with is homophobic, and if they are they’re going to have to deal with me, too, because I’m not letting anyone we work with give you shit.” Clark smiled, touched by Lois’ protective instincts. “You don’t have to make it a big deal, either, you could just say something like, you wanted to let everyone know that you’re dating Bruce Wayne, so you’ll have to decline any assignments that would involve you having to interview him or write about his company or charity work because it would be a conflict of interest. Then it’s not even about you being attracted to men, then it’s just about you being an ethical and responsible reporter.”

Clark thought this over. It wasn’t a terrible idea. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

“Like I said, only do it if you want to. But it might be a good first step. It would let you see how you feel about coming out to people who aren’t close friends and family.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You know me. I see a problem, I try to solve it. Anything else you needed to talk about?”

“That’s it on my end. Anything going on with you?”

Lois told him about how she was trying to convince Perry to let her go to Baghdad to report on alleged human rights violations by the United States in Iraq. Every time something interesting and potentially dangerous happened in another country, she  _ had  _ to be there. Clark had given up trying to dissuade her a long time ago. She knew the risks involved in her work. It was, Clark suspected, her favorite part of the job.

After they hung up, Clark stayed up the rest of the night. He enjoyed sleep, but he didn’t  _ need  _ it. Right now what he needed was to make a decision as to what he was going to do next.

Lois’ suggestion, that he should come out at work as a sort of trial run, was an intriguing one. He’d always shied away from the idea of telling anyone he worked with – other than Lois, of course – about his sexuality. It didn’t seem like any of their business. And maybe it wasn’t, broadly speaking, but people talked about their significant others at work all the time, and everyone had known about it when he and Lois had been together, and now that Clark was (allegedly) in a new relationship, why not mention it?

Besides, Lois had a point about the conflict of interest. Clark should at least tell Perry, if only because it was the ethical and responsible thing to do. Not that Clark was completely free of conflicts of interest, by any stretch of the imagination. He was in charge of the  _ Daily Planet _ ’s superhero coverage, and he was also Superman. So.

He went into Perry’s office after lunch on Monday; everyone at the  _ Daily Planet  _ knew Perry was always in a better mood after lunch, and scheduled any sensitive meetings accordingly. “Got a minute?” Clark asked, and Perry waved him inside. Clark shut the door behind him.

“If Lois recruited you to talk to me about Baghdad—” Perry warned.

Clark shook his head. “I’m not helping Lois get in the middle of a warzone. She can do that on her own.”

“What is it, then?”

Clark kept his tone casual. “I just wanted to let you know, for the foreseeable future, I can’t cover any stories relating to Bruce Wayne, Wayne Enterprises, or the Wayne Foundation.”

Perry looked confused. Clark had never said no when Perry asked him to cover something, even if it wasn’t the sort of thing he usually covered, even if it was completely outside his wheelhouse. “Why’s that?”

“I’m dating him. Bruce Wayne,” Clark clarified. “So it would be a conflict of interest.”

Perry nodded, the only hint of surprise on his face a slight lift of his eyebrows. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. He waited a moment, then asked, “That everything?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, getting to his feet. “Yeah, that’s everything.” He went back to his cubicle, feeling a little dazed.

He’d told Perry. Perry knew. And it had just been… simple. Easy. Straightforward.

Clark waited all week for the other shoe to drop, but Perry never called Clark into his office, never even mentioned it, not even in an email. And Clark hadn’t really expected Perry to react poorly. He’d had flickers of anxiety that he would get fired, but that was partially down to the economy. (It helped that Lois had promised him, that morning when he’d told her about his plan to tell Perry, that “if he fires you for your sexual orientation – not that I think he will, but  _ if _ he does – I walk. He’ll lose both his top reporters in one day.”) But Perry had hardly reacted at all.

Bolstered by his success with Perry, Clark started considering the possibility of telling more people. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but he could weave Bruce into conversation. Everyone would find out soon enough that he was “dating” Bruce, if they went through with the next phase of the plan. Better for them to hear about it beforehand.

Clark never got a chance to decide one way or another, though. On Friday, Cat marched into his cubicle with a stack of papers clutched in one hand and jerked her head toward the nearest unoccupied conference room. “You got a minute, Smallville? We need to talk.” She sounded stern, but not angry. Not upset. Like a kindergarten teacher reprimanding a misbehaving student:  _ I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed. _

“Sure.” Clark got up and followed Cat to the conference room. She shut the door behind them and motioned for him to sit down, then spread out the papers in front of him.

They were printouts of every article written about him and Bruce in every celebrity news outlet on the internet. Cat sat across from him, arms crossed over his chest. “I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, Smallville,” she began. “I saw the first article when it went up,” she tapped the printout of the article about him and Bruce at the Wayne Foundation fundraiser, “And of course I recognized you immediately. But I thought, surely Clark is just  _ friends _ with Bruce Wayne. I mean, it’s already unforgivable that you wouldn’t tell me you were friends with a celebrity, but  _ surely _ you wouldn’t keep the fact that you were  _ dating _ a celebrity from me. Clark, you  _ know _ I have to know these things. It’s my  _ job _ , Clark.”

Clark suppressed a smirk. Leave it to Cat to be offended that he hadn’t kept her in the loop. As the  _ Daily Planet _ ’s Style editor, she prided herself on being constantly “in the know.” The idea that one of her coworkers was dating a celebrity and hadn’t  _ told  _ her… it must have been unthinkable.

Clark had two options here. He could tell Cat he and Bruce  _ were _ just friends, but she would quickly find out that wasn’t the truth when he and Bruce went public, and Clark would never hear the end of it. Or…

He put on a serious face. “We’ve been keeping things under wraps,” he said, and Cat’s eyes widened at the confirmation of her suspicions. “We haven’t told  _ anyone _ .”

“But you are dating?”

“We are.”

Cat shook her head. “I’m surprised by you, Smallville,” she said. “I never would have guessed you were—”  _ gay _ , Clark expected her to say, but that wasn’t what she said at all, “—the type of guy to date a celebrity. You’re so down-to-earth.”

Clark shrugged. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he said, feeling a little whiplash at the unexpected turn of events.

Cat gathered up her papers, still shaking her head. “Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne. Who would have guessed.”

Clark didn’t have to tell anyone else in the office after that. Cat would see to it. She couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. And it was a bit of a relief, actually, to have the decision taken out of his hands.

And, in a way, the conversation with Cat had helped him figure out whether he was ready to move forward with Bruce. Everyone at the  _ Daily Planet _ was about to learn that he was (again, allegedly) in a relationship with Bruce Wayne. His parents already knew he was bisexual, as did Lois, and Bruce, of course.

Who else’s opinion really mattered?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by my experience being in the closet. Fun times. Also, I know Cat is canonically supposed to be a gossip columnist, but do major newspapers even have gossip columns these days? She’s the Style editor now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will almost definitely be my longest story yet, in both chapters and word count, so, you know, strap in. I’m a bit obsessive about numbers and so far all my stories are either 7 or 14 chapters so I’m aiming for 21 this time.

_ Bruce _

They took a bit of a break from each other after the evening together in Bruce’s study. It wasn’t intentional, not something they discussed beforehand. Bruce just got the sense Clark needed some time to think things over, decide whether he still wanted to be involved in this scheme he’d concocted, and Bruce didn’t want to move forward with any plans until he felt Clark was certain about it.

Because Clark kept  _ saying  _ he wanted to keep the fake relationship going, but Bruce didn’t entirely believe him. He’d seen the doubt in Clark’s eyes. And Bruce couldn’t blame Clark for doubting. Not only did the plan involve Clark coming out as bisexual and becoming the subject of countless tabloids, it would also forever link him to Bruce. To a certain subset of people, he would forever be “that guy who dated Bruce Wayne.” Not “talented investigative reporter for the  _ Daily Planet _ .” Clark didn’t write for recognition or fame, but surely even he would come to resent it after a while, his connection to Bruce overshadowing his career accomplishments. And Bruce very much did not want Clark to resent him.

In fact, the longer Bruce thought about it, the more he started to think that even if Clark didn’t manage to talk himself out of continuing the fake relationship, Bruce might have to do it for him. Bruce had appreciated Clark’s help so far, but he couldn’t possibly ask Clark for anything more, even if Clark was willing to give it.

A full week passed before either of them reached out to the other. Bruce was sitting in an armchair in his study, reading – since he’d stopped going out for any reason other than his fake dates with Clark, he’d started spending a lot more time at home  _ relaxing _ , a foreign concept in his usually busy life – when his phone buzzed on the side table next to him, displaying Clark’s name.

“Hey,” Clark said when Bruce picked up. “Just checking in. I haven’t heard from you all week.”

“I’ve been busy,” Bruce lied, marking his page in the book he was reading and setting it aside. “How have you been?”

“Well.” Clark took a breath. “I told everyone at work that we’re dating.” He paused, and when Bruce didn’t say anything, added, “I mostly wanted to avoid a conflict of interest, in case anyone asked me to cover anything related to you.”

It made sense for Clark to want to avoid a conflict of interest, but the fact that he’d told his coworkers about his fake relationship with Bruce meant he was still extremely committed to said fake relationship. It didn’t exactly bode well for Bruce’s plan to talk Clark out of it. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “I hope it went over well.”

“Better than I expected. Perry didn’t seem to care one way or another, and then I told Cat and she told the rest of the office.”

“No one’s been treating you differently?” Bruce was not above buying the  _ Daily Planet _ and firing everyone who treated Clark poorly. Although he didn’t think Clark would approve.

“They are a little,” Clark admitted. “Not Perry, but some of my coworkers. Although I don’t know if that’s because I’m dating a man or because I’m dating a celebrity. Pretending to date,” Clark corrected automatically, “But they don’t know that.”

“The other night it seemed like you had doubts.” Bruce ignored the memories the phrase “the other night” summoned, pleasant flashbacks to what had happened in the very room Bruce was sitting in now.

“I did,” Clark admitted. “I started having doubts about whether I was ready to come out. But what I told you, about how I’m not satisfied with the way things are for me right now, and how I feel like I’m repressing a part of myself… that’s all true. And I think it’s more important for me, right now, to listen to that voice that tells me I can’t keep living like this than to listen to the voice that tells me my life will be over if the whole world knows this about me. Because obviously that’s not true. I’m out to my family and friends and coworkers, and it all went fine. Those are the only people whose opinions I care about. I shouldn’t care what some gossip columnist or anonymous commenter or random guy on Facebook has to say about me and my life.”

“That’s easier said than done,” Bruce reminded him. He drummed his fingers on the side table and looked out the window. It was raining outside, really coming down; the sky was a violent gray and lightning flashed in the distance, too far away for Bruce to hear the thunder that followed it. He added, in spite of himself, “I’ve had to listen to people share their unnecessary, uninformed opinions about me my entire life, and as much as I’d like to say I don’t let any of it get to me, some of it does.” It was not something he would have admitted to anyone other than Clark (or Alfred). And he wouldn’t have even admitted it to Clark had they not been having this exact conversation. But, given the circumstances, he felt like Clark deserved to know. “Like you said, you’re out to your family and friends and your coworkers. There’s no need to involve the rest of the world.”

“I know I don’t  _ need _ to,” Clark said, sounding a bit exasperated. “I’ve  _ decided _ to. Of my own free will.” He sighed. “Bruce, when we started working together I had to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t any more invulnerable than the average human, and yet you act like you are. You put yourself in insane amounts of danger and take crazy risks. I had to learn to trust that you know what you’re doing and what you can handle. Now I’m asking you to do the same for me. I realize I don’t have your experience living in the public eye. I probably don’t know what I’m getting myself into the way you do. But I’m taking a risk and I’m asking you to trust that I know what I’m doing and what I can handle.”

Bruce was momentarily at a loss for words. Clark had never told him how he felt, being nearly invulnerable and fighting side-by-side with Bruce, who relied on nothing but his wealth and his brains to keep him alive. Bruce knew Clark was protective of him, although Clark had learned not to show it. But Bruce had never stopped to think about where that protectiveness came from. He’d never stopped to imagine how it must feel for Clark, powerful as he was, to watch the comparatively much weaker and more vulnerable Bruce throw himself into danger time and time again. It hadn’t occurred to him that the panic Bruce felt when he and Clark were faced with Kryptonite was likely somewhere close to how Clark felt any time Bruce put his life on the line.

The fact that Clark hadn’t said anything about it until now was an impressive show of restraint. And it did speak to Clark’s trust in Bruce to make his own decisions. It would be extremely shitty of Bruce not to return the favor.

“I understand,” Bruce said. “I do trust you.”

He could practically hear the relief in Clark’s voice when Clark answered, “I know you do.”

After that, there wasn’t much else Bruce could say to try to dissuade Clark, at least not in good conscience. Their discussion turned to their plan to go public with their fake relationship, and answering the all-important question: How were they going to get caught in the act?

They set a time and a place: Friday evening, after they both got off work, at a trendy new restaurant in Gotham that was the place to be for after-work dinners and drinks. They met at Wayne Manor so they’d be seen arriving together. There wasn’t much traffic going into the city, and when they arrived and found a spot in the parking garage, Bruce stopped Clark from getting out of the car right away with a hand on his arm.

“Our reservation isn’t for another ten minutes,” Bruce told him.

Clark looked at him strangely. “You made a reservation?” Which was a fair enough reaction, because it was the first time Bruce had ever done such a thing. He’d wanted Clark to be as comfortable and at ease as possible that night, so he’d made a reservation under Clark’s name: no special treatment, no skipping ahead of the line.

“I know you hate that we always walk in without a reservation,” Bruce said plainly, stating a fact, “So I made a reservation.”

“I’m sure they won’t mind that we’re a little early,” Clark said, reaching for the passenger side door again.

“Is that allowed?” Bruce asked.

Now Clark looked even more surprised. “Yes,” he said, stating this like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Bruce, is this your first time ever making a dinner reservation?”

“I’ve never needed one before.”

Clark rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Take it from me then. It won’t be a problem.” Finally, he got out of the car, and Bruce followed him to the elevator.

“Are you still okay with our plan for tonight?” Bruce asked.

“Completely.”

“You’re certain?”

Clark gave Bruce a look that wasn't quite a glare but was very, very close. “Bruce,” he warned. “We talked about this.”

Bruce took Clark’s hint and let the issue be. They took the elevator up to street level and entered the restaurant.

“Reservation for Kent,” Bruce said at the hostess stand. The hostess looked up to smile at them and Bruce watched as recognition dawned in her eyes.

“Kent?” she repeated, quickly looking away from Bruce and down at the computer screen in front of her.

“Clark Kent,” Clark added over Bruce’s shoulder.

The hostess nodded, eyes flicking back and forth between Bruce and the computer, ignoring Clark entirely. “Clark Kent, table for two,” she confirmed. “Right this way.” She led them to a table in the middle of the packed restaurant.

Bruce sat down, ignoring the wave of discomfort that always washed over him when he had his back to people. He usually asked for a table by the window for this very reason, but whoever he’d made the reservation with on the phone earlier that week had been confused by that request: “Unfortunately we can’t guarantee you a specific table, sir,” and Bruce decided not to press the issue.

The hostess handed them both menus, Clark thanked her, and she rushed back to the front of the restaurant, glancing over her shoulder twice as if to confirm that she really had just seated  _ Bruce Wayne _ .

Their waiter arrived minutes later, doing a much better job of disguising his surprise when he saw Bruce. Maybe the hostess had warned him. He took their orders and, while they were waiting for their food, Bruce took a good look around the restaurant.

The plan for the night was this: Bruce had carefully chosen a location where they were not only likely to be recognized but likely to attract the attention of the type of people who would go to the media. For that reason, Bruce had avoided anywhere too expensive, places like Solstice that regularly attracted recognizable faces where they were less likely to stand out. He’d instead chosen somewhere just pricey enough to attract a crowd of upper-middle-class office workers looking for a spot of excitement after a long, boring work week, who would be surprised to see a man like Bruce Wayne and might be tempted to sneak a few pics for Facebook likes. He’d also chosen somewhere trendy enough that it was guaranteed to be packed to the gills on a Friday night, increasing the number of eyes (and, potentially, cell phone cameras) on them.

While they were eating, it was Clark’s job to eavesdrop on the conversations taking place in the restaurant and identify anyone who was talking about them. Together, they’d select the most likely candidate and try to get that person to photograph them.

“Pick up on anything yet?” Bruce asked halfway through their meal, quiet enough that no one sitting at the surrounding tables would overhear.

“So far people at eight tables have identified who you are,” Clark reported. “People at four of those tables have also identified who I am. Not by name, but as the person who’s supposedly dating you.”

“Which tables?”

“The couple to the left of that big plant over by the window. A group of four directly behind you and to the right. Another couple closer to the front entrance who saw us when we walked in. And a larger group behind me. I think there are…” he stopped, listened, “Six of them?”

Bruce subtly glanced over Clark’s shoulder. There was, in fact, a table of six just behind him. “Any of them talking about us now?”

“One of the women in the group of six keeps trying to bring you up, but the rest of the table isn’t biting.”

Bruce glanced over again. The group of six contained four men, two women, and they looked like they’d come straight from work, a law office perhaps. The men were in full suits and the women in dresses and heels. Either a law office or a business that had yet to institute casual Fridays. Even Bruce let his employees wear jeans on Fridays, even though he’d never be caught dead in them.

“Is it the woman talking now?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clark confirmed.

“Got it. Green dress.” Bruce had noticed the woman in question sneaking not-so-subtle glances at him and Clark ever since they’d arrived. “We might have luck with her.”

“Neither of the couples talking about us sounded like they had much more than a passing interest. The group of four behind you is very curious, but they spent a while talking about how disgusting it is that the paparazzi follows our every move. I think the woman in green is our best bet.”

Bruce gave a small nod. “Does she sound like she drove here?”

Clark gave him another exasperated almost-glare. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“Did she mention the traffic? Or did she talk about getting a cab, or walking here?”

“I wasn’t listening for that,” Clark said.

“When her table asks for the check, see if she asks to get her parking validated.”

Clark nodded, and Bruce looked again at the table of six. They’d already had their food when Clark and Bruce arrived, and their plates were now mostly empty. They’d be leaving soon. “You almost done?”

“I can take the rest of this to go,” Clark said. His plate was still half-full. He’d had to focus on eavesdropping instead of eating.

“I’ll ask for the check.”

The waiter brought their check, and Bruce handed over his credit card without even looking at it. By the time the waiter returned, another waitress was giving the table of six their check.

“She just asked to get her parking validated,” Clark whispered once their waiter had walked away.

“Excellent.” That meant the woman in green had also parked in the garage. It would make their plan that much easier. “Let’s go.”

* * *

_ Clark _

Bruce had said they’d have two options for staging the kiss that they hoped would end up in the news: If they caught the attention of someone who’d driven to the restaurant and parked in the garage, they could make out in Bruce’s car and hope that the person would notice them as they walked by. But if they caught the attention of someone who’d parked on the street, taken a cab, or walked to the restaurant, they’d have to find some shadowy corner outside the restaurant to make out in. The benefit of the second option was that any additional passersby would also see them and, potentially, photograph them. The benefit of the first was that they didn’t have to worry about the kiss being perfectly convincing, because a cell phone photo of two men in a dimly lit parking lot wouldn’t show too much detail.

Clark had been very much hoping for the second option – neither he nor Bruce had brought up the possibility of doing any more “practicing” before the big show, probably because neither of them wanted to be the first to bring it up – and was relieved when things worked out that way.

“What if she didn’t park anywhere near us?” Clark asked as he and Bruce took the elevator down to the parking garage.

“Restaurant patrons are only allowed to park on one level of the garage,” Bruce said, pointing to the labels next to the elevator buttons. “She was wearing heels, so I don’t think she would have parked too far from the elevator.” He stopped and looked around when they got off on their level. “She’ll have a luxury car. An Audi or Mercedes.”

“I refuse to believe you can tell all that just from looking at her,” Clark said dryly. Although he did sort of believe it; Bruce was good at this sort of thing.

“I know cars,” Bruce insisted. He pointed down the row of parked cars. “That one. The white Audi A5.” He looked back toward where he’d parked his own car, on the opposite side of the elevator. “We’ll have to move my car closer to it.”

Clark followed Bruce to his car. “If you actually get this right,” he said as they got in, “I’ll give you a medal.”

They moved their car so it was between the elevator and the Audi. Clark stretched out with his super senses, listening for the woman’s voice.

“They just left the restaurant,” he said. “They’re splitting up. Two coming down here.”

“They’re in the elevator?” Bruce asked. Clark nodded. “Let me know if the remaining two go in different directions.”

“They’re saying goodbye,” Clark said quickly. “They’re going in different directions. She’s coming this way.”

Without warning, Bruce leaned forward across the car’s center console, pulling Clark toward him. Their mouths met clumsily at first, but Bruce adjusted quickly, with a hand on the back of Clark’s neck and one on his arm. Clark followed Bruce’s lead, a feeling like champagne bubbles in his chest when he felt the slide of Bruce’s tongue against his own.

It was a struggle for Clark to keep his ears trained on the sound of the woman in green as her heels clacked toward them, as she fished in her purse for her car keys. Bruce’s presence, his closeness overwhelmed Clark’s senses. The sound of Bruce’s heartbeat thudded in his ears, speeding up as the kiss deepened. The scent of Bruce’s shampoo and cologne, faded this late in the day; the taste of the wine he’d had with dinner on his tongue; the feel of Bruce’s crisp white shirt under Clark’s hands.

The heels stopped their progress. The woman dug around in her purse again. Had she seen them? Was she getting her cell phone out to take a photo? A few more moments passed before the heels continued their progress, followed by the sound of a car door unlocking, then opening, the woman getting in her car and driving away.

Clark snuck a peek. It was the white Audi A5.

He broke the kiss, though neither of them leaned very far away. “She stopped,” Clark said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “I don’t know if she took a picture. Can’t hear a cell phone camera if it’s on silent.”

“Did she get in the Audi?” Bruce asked, voice low and a tad rougher than usual, reviving that champagne bubbles feeling.

“Yes,” Clark confirmed.

A smug smirk spread across Bruce’s handsome features. “Told you.”

It shouldn’t have been as attractive as it was.

Bruce drove them back to Wayne Manor and they parted ways, with an agreement in place for Bruce to call Clark when he woke up, whether or not any photos of them went up overnight. They would either have to plan another night like this one, hoping to get caught, or to plan their strategy for coming forward about their relationship.

In contrast to the sleepless night Clark spent almost a week ago agonizing over whether he was ready to come out in such a public way, that night Clark was fast asleep at a perfectly reasonable hour. Even faced with the possibility that he’d wake up and find pictures of him and Bruce had spread all over the internet, he felt at ease. He felt ready.

He woke up the next morning and even managed to wait until he’d finished getting ready for the day before checking his phone or opening his laptop to see what might have happened overnight. He ran a quick Google search of his and Bruce’s names, and sure enough, several celebrity gossip websites had posted articles early that morning. Apparently the woman in green  _ had _ taken photos, and she hadn’t just posted them on the internet but had sent them directly to multiple online tabloids. It was certainly an efficient method of distribution.

The photos weren’t the highest quality, as Bruce had predicted, but they were certainly telling. If Bruce and Clark really were in a relationship, and they were actually trying to hide it from the press, this would be the final nail in the coffin of their secrecy.

Oddly enough, all the speculation about Clark, the thinly veiled homophobia (and the homophobia that wasn’t veiled at all), didn’t make Clark feel any worse than it had to read those same comments when they were directed only at Bruce. In fact, it was almost easier, having seen it all already, going into it knowing what to expect. The typical evangelical nonsense about how Clark and Bruce were living a life of sin and would burn in hell for all eternity. The usual conservative talking points, that they were corrupting America’s youth or diluting the sanctity of marriage or tearing apart the very fabric of society.

Even the comments accusing Clark of golddigging and only being interested in Bruce for his fame and fortune fell flat. Who in their right mind would want fame in the form of homophobic vitriol on the internet? And it wasn’t like Clark was marrying Bruce; he didn’t have access to any of Bruce’s wealth. Bruce paid for all their fake dates, but he had always paid when they went anywhere together, so nothing had changed there. And Bruce hadn’t bought him anything, probably because he knew Clark wouldn’t accept it.

And of course, as Clark had thought it would, it helped that he’d already come out to anyone whose opinion mattered to him. His parents loved him no matter what. Lois fully supported him. Bruce obviously didn’t have a problem with it. And neither, it seemed, did his boss or his coworkers, at least the ones he interacted with most. Cat’s only change in behavior after learning about Clark’s supposed relationship with Bruce was to pester him with questions about what it was like dating a celebrity, which Clark easily deflected, and Jimmy was honestly less awkward with Clark now than he had been when Clark was dating Lois.

Clark was skimming the fifth article he’d found about them so far when his phone started buzzing next to him. When he saw it was Bruce’s name lighting up the screen, he frowned, confused. It wasn’t even nine AM yet; as far as Bruce was concerned, it may as well have been the crack of dawn.

Clark picked up the phone. “You’re up early.”

As usual, Bruce wasted no time getting straight to the point. “Would you like to come over for breakfast?” He sounded semi-awake, like he had a cup of coffee in him but needed two or three more.

“Did you sleep?” Clark asked, genuinely concerned for Bruce’s well-being. This was unprecedented to say the least.

“Sure,” Bruce said dismissively.

“For longer than three hours?” Clark added skeptically.

“I said I’d call when I woke up, didn’t I? I’m awake. I’m calling.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t be up until some time closer to noon,” Clark said. “You didn’t wake up early just to call me, did you? Because there was really no need for that.”

“I wanted to catch you before you ate breakfast,” Bruce said, like he wasn’t acting completely out of character. “I thought today would probably be stressful for you, and I remember you like breakfast food. Are you interested?”

Clark was still a bit concerned about Bruce’s likely lack of sleep, but he was also genuinely touched, not just that Bruce had remembered his affinity for breakfast food but that Bruce would go so far out of his way – actually waking up  _ in the morning _ – to give Clark some comfort on a day Bruce thought would be rough for Clark (although Bruce was probably imagining Clark to be in more emotional turmoil than he actually was). “I’d love to,” he said.

“Can you be here in half an hour?” Bruce asked.

“Sure. I’ll see you then.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving all your comments so far! Keep them coming!

_ Bruce _

Clark arrived right on time. Bruce heard the doorbell echoing through the house and went to let Clark in; when he opened the door, Clark was dressed in his usual casual weekend attire, jeans and a plaid button-up t-shirt and a jacket. Bruce let him in and shut the door behind him.

“How do you feel?” Bruce asked. Clark didn’t look like a man going through an emotional crisis, and although Bruce knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving, Bruce also knew Clark well enough that he could usually tell how Clark was feeling, even if Clark was trying to hide it. (Clark wasn’t anywhere near as good as Bruce at hiding it.)

“I feel fine,” Clark assured him. “Really. I am ready for some breakfast food, though.”

Bruce led Clark through the house, following the inviting scents of bacon, eggs, and sausages. “Alfred’s making a full English, so it’s not your typical American breakfast food, but I think you’ll still like it. It’s very good.”

“I’m sure it is.”

Alfred was waiting for them in the kitchen, standing over the stove in an apron and holding a spatula. He looked up to greet them when they arrived, as happy to see Clark as he always was.

“Hello, Alfred,” Clark said pleasantly, taking a seat across from Bruce at the kitchen table, where two cups of coffee – black for Bruce, vanilla latte for Clark – and buttered toast and marmalade waited for them. “Thanks for breakfast this morning.”

“Oh, of course,” Alfred said. “It’s a pleasure to have you, as always. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Very.”

Alfred turned his attention back to the stove and Clark turned to face Bruce, taking a bite of his toast.

“I haven’t actually read what people are saying about us,” Bruce admitted. “I imagine it’s much of the same?” He sipped from his cup of coffee, his fourth so far that morning. He was running on caffeine and two-and-a-half hours of sleep, but he’d known if he’d slept in any longer Clark would have already eaten breakfast by the time Bruce called him, so he’d set an alarm for eight in the morning, an ungodly hour to get out of bed on a weekend. He wasn’t usually the type of person who took naps, but he would definitely be making an exception later that day.

“More or less,” Clark confirmed. “Lots of homophobia, mixed with some messages of support here and there and speculation as to when we’ll finally admit to the world that we’re dating.”

“They won’t have to wait long on that front.”

“How do you think we should do it?” Clark paused to wash his toast down with a swig of coffee. “You’re the expert here.”

“Now that there’s actual proof of our relationship, I should start to get some interview requests from reputable news outlets,” Bruce explained. “I’ll talk to my publicist on Monday and we’ll arrange an interview with a publication we think will handle the story respectfully. Most likely an online newspaper. I don’t think this will be a big enough story to get on TV. Me coming out was a big story because of the national debate surrounding same-sex marriage and the broader movement for LGBT rights. Celebrities coming out is a hot topic, even if, like me, they’re not A-listers. But me being in a relationship is less politically relevant.”

“What about me?” Clark asked. “What should I do?”

“I’m not sure how many reputable outlets will want to interview you before anyone gets a chance to interview me,” Bruce said. Clark didn’t look like he took offense to that. Bruce hadn’t expected him to. “But if the right opportunity presents itself, from a publication you and I both trust not to misrepresent you, then you can agree to it and I’ll coach you on interview tips.” He paused, and asked, “Unless you’d rather work with my publicist? She’s very good.”

“I’d rather work with you.”

Alfred came over to the table with two plates piled with traditional English breakfast foods, placing them in front of Bruce and Clark with a flourish. “Breakfast is served.”

“This looks delicious.” Clark smiled up at Alfred. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce echoed. He returned his attention to Clark, gesturing with his fork in between bites. “In my interview, they’ll most likely ask how we got together. I think it would be best if we keep things as simple as possible, so we don’t have to remember too many details. We first met when you were a new reporter covering charity events in the Gotham-Metropolis area. The more events you attended, the more we got to know each other. We became friends, and then when I came out as bisexual, you did as well and we admitted our attraction to each other.” He paused, drained the rest of his coffee, debated pouring himself a fifth cup, decided it wasn’t worth it. He’d developed a high tolerance for caffeine, but five cups was around when the jitters and anxiety started to settle in. “Or something along those lines,” he concluded.

“I like that story,” Clark said. “It’s close enough to the truth.”

“They might ask if we’ve told anyone else about our relationship,” Bruce continued. “I’ve told Alfred. You’ve told your coworkers. Anyone else?”

“Lois, but she’s included among my coworkers,” Clark replied. “I haven’t told my parents. I probably should. They don’t read celebrity gossip, but soon enough one of their neighbors who does is sure to bring it up.”

“That would probably be a good idea.” Bruce didn’t know much about Clark’s parents, but they would probably want to hear about their son’s relationship – real or fake – from Clark himself and not some nosy neighbor.

“Any other interview questions you’re anticipating?”

“Probably more bullshit about my sexual history. I’m used to that. Questions about how we feel for each other, how committed we are, what I like about you.” Bruce shrugged. “Questions about you. Your personality, your hobbies.”

Clark cracked a smile. “How are you going to answer the question about my hobbies? You can’t tell them I’m too busy saving the world to have hobbies.”

“‘He spends most of his free time volunteering,’” Bruce improvised.

“I like that.” Clark nodded approvingly. “Then people will know we have something in common. Your charity work, my ‘volunteering.’”

“Your interview will probably be much trickier than mine,” Bruce predicted. “Not only will you get the same questions about our relationship, you’ll have to prove that you’re interested in me for more than my money.”

“That doesn’t sound hard,” Clark said. “I am interested in you for more than your money. Your money is one of the least interesting things about you.”

Even though Bruce knew Clark had never cared about Bruce’s wealth or status, it still felt surprisingly good to hear Clark say so. Bruce was so used to his name, his title, and his bank account being the only things that mattered, except when he was Batman. It was one of the things he liked about being Batman, the anonymity.

And it was one of the things he liked about Clark, that Clark had gotten to know his personality before learning who he was. Although Bruce suspected Clark would still treat him the same even if he had known he was Bruce Wayne from the start. Clark was just that type of person. He didn’t judge a book by its cover.

“Too bad you can’t tell them what is the most interesting thing about me,” Bruce joked.

Clark, however, would not be deterred. “The fact that you’re Batman also isn’t the most interesting thing about you,” he said, quite seriously. “Not to me.” He leaned slightly forward, like he really wanted Bruce to pay attention to what he said next. “Superheroes are a dime a dozen. None of them are you.”

“Then what is the most interesting thing about me?” Bruce asked, very much wanting to hear Clark’s answer.

Clark leaned back in his chair and grinned. “I guess you’ll have to wait for my interview to find out.”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but was privately disappointed, and intensely curious. What could possibly interest Clark more than the fact that Bruce was Batman? And what did Clark think Bruce had that their other superhero colleagues didn’t?

Evidently Clark wasn’t telling, at least not yet, so Bruce shoved his questions aside to obsess over later, when he was alone, and changed the subject. They discussed potential “date” ideas; the list of places they could go had expanded now that they weren’t pretending to try to keep their fake relationship a secret. They finished their breakfast, and Alfred quietly retrieved their empty plates.

Though Alfred was obviously trying not to interrupt their conversation, Clark could never pass up an opportunity to be polite. “Breakfast was delicious, Alfred,” he said with a sincere, beaming smile. “Thank you.”

A strange thought occurred to Bruce. He had wondered many times in the years since he’d discovered his attraction to men, and many more times since being forced to come out, whether his parents would have approved of his sexuality, and he was no closer to an answer than he had been as a confused and frustrated teenager. But had his parents lived, and had they been accepting of Bruce’s sexuality, Bruce was completely certain they would have approved of Bruce dating someone like Clark.

This was a strange thought not just because it seemingly came out of nowhere, and not just because Bruce wasn’t even truly dating Clark and was instead only pretending to. No, the strangest thing about it was how sure Bruce felt about it. But it made sense. Clark was friendly, polite, intelligent, respectful, hardworking. It was like he’d been designed specifically to appeal to parents.

He’d certainly charmed Alfred, who was the closest thing Bruce had to a living parent, which further confirmed Bruce’s instincts.

“You’re welcome, Master Clark,” Alfred said. He leaned toward Clark conspiratorially, motioning toward Bruce. “I rarely get to cook breakfast for this one. I’m shocked you managed to convince him to wake up at such a reasonable hour.”

“There is nothing ‘reasonable’ about eight AM on a Saturday,” Bruce muttered, but neither Clark nor Alfred were paying him any attention.

“I didn’t convince him to do anything,” Clark insisted. “I didn’t even know he was planning this.”

Alfred straightened up, clasping his hands behind his back and smiling much too smugly for Bruce’s liking. “It may not have been your idea, Master Clark, but he wouldn’t have done it for anyone but you.”

Bruce stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the tile floor. “I’m sure you have places to be,” he said, and though his words were directed at Clark, he was glaring over Clark’s shoulder at Alfred. “I’ll walk you out.”

Clark followed Bruce to the front door, blessedly waiting until they were out of Alfred’s earshot to quietly say, “I don’t actually have anywhere else to be today.”

“Either way,” Bruce replied dismissively, “I’m anticipating a significant caffeine crash sometime in the next half hour, and you don’t want to be around when that happens.”

Clark laughed. Bruce opened the door for him. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Clark said. “Thanks for the invitation this morning.”

“Of course,” Bruce said, unable to stop a smile from tugging up the corners of his lips. “You’re welcome anytime.”

Once Clark had taken off out of sight, Bruce stalked back to the kitchen, his annoyance returning in full force. He didn’t know what Alfred was up to, but he already didn’t like it. “What was that about?” he demanded of Alfred, who was washing dishes in the sink.

“I was merely stating a fact, Master Bruce,” Alfred said innocently. “This is the first time in your adult life that you have woken up this early for a purely social function.”

It was a fair point. Work was just about the only thing that got Bruce out of bed, and even then, he came into the office late most days, and his executive assistant knew not to schedule any of his meetings before noon unless they were very important and simply couldn’t wait.

Truth be told, Bruce couldn’t articulate exactly what had motivated him to get up early that morning. He’d been meaning to invite Clark over for breakfast, and he wanted to make sure Clark was doing alright after the photos of them kissing went up overnight, but what Alfred had said was right; Bruce wouldn’t have done that for anyone else. There wasn’t anyone else in his life who he both cared about enough and who inspired the same feelings of… protectiveness. Which was insane. Clark was practically invulnerable and more than capable of taking care of himself. He was the last person who needed Bruce’s protection. And yet.

At least Bruce knew the feeling was mutual. Clark had admitted to him, when they’d had that phone conversation before staging the kiss, that it was difficult for him to watch Bruce put himself in harm’s way. And Bruce had known that, to an extent, even before that conversation. He saw it in the way Clark winced to see Bruce hurt, heard it in the way Clark lectured him when Bruce did something that could have gotten him killed. Neither of them were like that with any of the other heroes they worked with. Only each other.

They’d always looked out for each other like that, from the first time they started working together, even when they were both still convinced they hated each other. (Bruce had to admit, in hindsight, that he’d never  _ really _ hated Superman, and he didn’t think Clark had hated him either. They’d just taken a while to get used to each other.) But the protectiveness Bruce felt for Clark had recently reached a new level. He didn’t just want to protect Clark from physical danger; he also wanted to protect Clark from emotional harm. It was why he’d tried to talk Clark out of the fake relationship. And it was why he’d gotten up early to invite Clark over for breakfast when he thought Clark would be having a rough day.

Bruce was aware that most people would recognize this feeling as a natural part of a particularly close friendship, but that was just the thing. He’d never had a friend like Clark before. The feeling was entirely new to him.

He didn’t quite know what to do with it.

* * *

_ Clark _

Clark’s plan when he got home from Wayne Manor was to immediately call up his parents. Actually, his plan had been to call them first thing that morning, after he finished scrolling through the articles that had gone up overnight about him and Bruce, but Bruce’s invitation to breakfast had derailed that particular plan.

He didn’t feel a particular need to rush; his parents and their friends were at most barely internet literate. They relied on cable news to stay updated and had never heard of Facebook. But soon enough, one of Clark’s old schoolmates who still lived in Smallville and did get their news from the internet would see the pictures of Clark with Bruce, recognize his name or face, and tell their parents, who would tell Clark’s parents, who would call him wondering why they’d learned about his new boyfriend through the grapevine instead of directly from him. Clark had to tell them before  _ that _ happened. And it would be easier to do it sooner rather than later.

The only reason he’d waited this long, rather than giving them a heads up before he and Bruce decided to make their fake relationship public, was that he wasn’t particularly looking forward to explaining the situation. It was, admittedly, a convoluted arrangement. But then again, the Kents had dealt with plenty of weirdness before, and their son being in a fake relationship with a billionaire hardly measured up to their son being an alien from a planet that no longer existed. So maybe Clark wasn’t giving them enough credit.

He paced back and forth across his one-bedroom apartment once, twice, three times before dialing his parents’ number. He called the landline first, because cell service on the Kent farm was spotty at best and nonexistent at worst.

After the first few rings, Clark heard his mother’s voice, a sound that always made him smile no matter how complicated the conversation he was about to have might be. “Hello?”

“Hey, Ma, it’s me.”

“Clark!” Clark could picture the way his mother’s face lit up, the same way it did when Clark flew to Smallville for a surprise visit. Martha’s next words were slightly muffled as she spoke away from the phone: “Honey, it’s Clark.” Then, directly into the phone again, “Your father says hello. We’ve missed you. We know you’re busy, but we love hearing from you. Is everything okay at work? No more layoffs?”

“Not since September,” Clark said, though he didn’t add that, layoffs or no, work hadn’t stopped being a stressful affair, it probably wouldn’t return completely to normal until the economy recovered, and who knew how long that would take. He didn’t need his parents to worry about him any more than they already did.

“That’s good,” Martha said, sounding marginally reassured. “And you’re staying safe? Not getting into too much trouble?”

This was another thing Clark wished his parents would worry about less, though he supposed, as parents, it was in their nature to worry, especially when their son regularly put himself in danger saving the world. Once again, he kept his answer deliberately vague: “Not too much,” was all he said.

Clark felt guilty hiding things from his parents, and under normal circumstances he would be more open with them, but he knew Martha and Jonathan were going through their own struggles. The recession had hit small-town America particularly hard. Local businesses were going under. Families that had lived in the area for generations were moving away. Clark had started sending part of his paycheck home every month, and his parents had resisted at first, telling him to save the money for himself in case the  _ Daily Planet _ did lay him off. Only by flying to Smallville, bank statement in hand, did Clark manage to convince them that he already had enough money put away to keep himself on his feet if he lost his job.

“I live in an apartment, I don’t have kids, I don’t have a car payment, and I don’t have healthcare expenses,” he’d explained to them. All he had in terms of debt were his student loan payments, which were lower than they could have been thanks to partial scholarships. All things considered, he was in a much better position than most people his age.

Given that his parents already had finances to worry about, Clark didn’t want to add any of his concerns – from his employment to his side gig as Superman – on top of that. It was best, he’d decided, to keep things vague.

“And Lois?” Martha asked, finally bringing up a less fraught subject. Clark’s parents had finally accepted that Clark and Lois were  _ not _ getting back together, but they still liked Lois, and always wanted to hear how she was doing.

“Lois is good,” Clark said. “She’s doing great work. And she’s been a real help with some personal stuff I’ve been going through. Which actually leads me to what I wanted to talk to you about today. Is Dad still there? Can you put me on speaker?”

“Hold on, he’s just in the other room.” Again, Martha’s voice was muffled; this time it sounded like her hand was over the receiver. “Jonathan! Clark wants to talk to both of us.” A few moments passed before Martha said, “Go ahead, Clark.”

Clark took a breath. He’d gone over this conversation several times in his head, but that was different from actually having it. “I don’t know how much I’ve talked about this,” he began slowly, “But I’m sure I’ve mentioned that I’m friends with Bruce Wayne?”

“Which one is he?” Martha asked.

“The billionaire,” Jonathan said before Clark could answer.

“That’s right. I remember.”

“It’s a long story, and I think the more I try to explain it the more confusing it will sound, so I’ll try to keep it simple. Bruce is bisexual, like me, and he was recently outed because of a video someone posted on the internet. He’s kind of known for sleeping around, and people have been using that history against him and as evidence for the stereotype that bisexual people are incapable of commitment. I wanted to help him with the PR crisis he’s facing, so I offered to pretend to date him for a while.”

There was a long pause before Jonathan finally said, “You’re right. That is confusing.”

Clark chuckled. “I warned you. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you both about it before you heard from anyone else. Bruce is kind of famous, so our interactions have already been in the news, and obviously everyone thinks we’re in a relationship. We’re not, but you can’t tell anyone that.”

“I don’t know, Clark,” Jonathan said skeptically. “Isn’t this the sort of thing Bruce should deal with on his own? There’s no reason to drag you into it.”

“I’ve had this exact conversation with him,” Clark explained, feeling like a broken record. “Bruce is my friend, and I want to help him in whatever way I can.”

“You have to admit, this is going a bit above and beyond,” Martha pointed out.

“Bruce would go above and beyond for me if I needed it,” Clark said firmly. “It’s the least I can do.”

Clark’s parents were both silent for a moment before responding in the way Clark had known they ultimately would: “If that’s what you’ve decided,” Jonathan said, “You know we’ll support you no matter what.”

A few days passed before Bruce texted Clark to let him know that he’d agreed to an interview with the  _ Gotham Gazette _ .  _ They’re not as good as the DP but I guess they’re good enough _ , Clark had texted back cheekily. In truth, he respected the journalists over at the  _ Gazette _ , and knew many of them personally. He trusted them not to sensationalize Bruce’s story, or print unfounded allegations about him.

_ Would be a massive conflict of interest for the DP to interview someone they have reason to believe is fucking one of their reporters _ , Bruce had pointed out, and that was also true, although he hadn’t needed to put it in those words exactly. Clark had done an admirable job of avoiding thoughts along the lines of “him and Bruce fucking” for at least a few years now and he wasn’t eager to break his streak.

Clark was at work when he got Bruce’s next text, about a week later, that the interview had gone up:  _ Tell me what you think _ , Bruce said. Clark quickly navigated to the  _ Gazette _ ’s website and found the article quickly: “Exclusive Interview: Bruce Wayne opens up about secret relationship.” The interviewer’s name wasn’t one he recognized, but most of the people he knew at the  _ Gazette _ were investigative reporters like himself, so that made sense.

The first few paragraphs of the article explained the context of the situation: the video of Bruce and Mystery Man that had gone up over four months ago, Bruce coming out as bisexual in his TV interview, the photos of Bruce and Clark that had led to speculation about the nature of their relationship, and, finally, the photos of Bruce and Clark making out in Bruce’s car that had seemed to confirm what everyone already assumed about them. It was, as Clark had anticipated, a straightforward yet thorough summary. It mentioned that Bruce had received some backlash for coming out and being seen in a seemingly romantic context with another man, but it didn’t go into gritty, homophobic detail, and it referenced other celebrities who had come out in recent years and faced similar treatment.

Then the interview began.

_ GAIL CASTRO: What was your reaction when the first photos of you and Clark Kent went up online? _

_ BRUCE WAYNE: My first reaction was to worry about how it would affect Clark. I’m used to people scrutinizing everything I do. I literally grew up in the spotlight, and I knew people would be paying even more attention to my interactions with men after I came out as bisexual. The same way everyone assumes, when someone photographs me with a woman, that we must have had some sort of relationship, I knew they would start assuming the same thing every time someone photographed me with a man. So I knew what was coming. And you could make the argument that Clark is a journalist, so he should have been prepared for it too. But it’s different to be on the other side of the camera. I’m sure you would feel overwhelmed if, instead of reporting on other people’s relationships, people started reporting on yours. _

_ CASTRO: Over the past four months, most of the photos of you and Kent have seemed relatively innocuous. But the most recent photos tell a different story. What was your reaction when those went up? _

_ WAYNE: Clark and I both had the same reaction. We realized at the same time that it wouldn’t be possible for us to keep our relationship a secret. I had been hoping to keep our relationship out of the news a little longer, because it’s only been four months. We’re still in the phase of our relationship where we’re figuring things out, and it’s tough to do that when there are so many eyes on you. _

_ CASTRO: You say you and Kent have been together for four months. Have the two of you been exclusive this whole time? _

_ WAYNE: We have. _

It occurred to Clark that he hadn’t actually asked Bruce if he’d been with anyone else since they’d started pretending to date. He assumed Bruce hadn’t. He didn’t think Bruce would risk anyone seeing him with someone else and thinking he was cheating. That would only make his PR crisis even worse.

Did that mean it had been four months since Bruce had slept with anyone?

Was that a record?

_ CASTRO: What about Kent made you decide to commit to a relationship with him, as opposed to something more casual? _

_ WAYNE: Clark and I were friends first, before any of this. I already knew him as a person and enjoyed spending time with him. I feel like I could talk to him for hours. I  _ have _ talked to him for hours, on many occasions. He’s not just someone I find physically attractive; he’s someone I connect with on a much deeper level. _

There were more questions, but Clark found himself stuck on one in particular, reading and rereading Bruce’s answer and wondering how much of it was Bruce telling the truth and how much was a fabrication.

_ CASTRO: What drew you to Kent in the first place? What made him such a good friend that you eventually decided to pursue a deeper relationship? _

_ WAYNE: Clark is the kindest and most selfless person I know. He consistently puts the needs of others above his own. And on top of that, he’s friendly, he’s intelligent, and he always does the right thing. But I think what I find most impressive about him is his hope for humanity. I’ve never met someone who’s seen all the things he’s seen and managed to remain an optimist. I don’t know how he does it. I admire that about him. _

_ And it helps that he’s extremely good-looking. _


	9. Chapter 9

_ Bruce _

The weekend after Bruce’s interview went up, he and Clark went out for the first time since making their fake relationship public. Winter was in full swing, and with outdoor date activities limited and both of them too busy with work to get creative, they ended up at a bar, leaning in close to hear each other over the din of conversation surrounding them.

“How would you feel about attending a fundraiser with me?” Bruce asked. They’d been there an hour already, mostly talking about politics; not the most exciting topic, but with the inauguration coming up, who wasn’t talking about politics? Meanwhile, Bruce had been waiting for the right time to extend an invitation to the upcoming start-of-year Wayne Foundation fundraiser. He’d been thinking about it a great deal, and it seemed like the natural next step for Bruce to start inviting Clark as his plus-one to the charity events he attended. Not to mention, because it was a Wayne Foundation event, Bruce had final say over who was invited from the press, and he could make sure there wouldn’t be any reporters there who would harass him or Clark about the recent news of their relationship.

“The annual Wayne Foundation fundraiser?” Clark asked. When Bruce nodded, Clark said, “Sure, I’m fine with that. When is it?”

“This Friday.”

“Should I wear my one good suit?”

“Only because I know you’ll say no if I offer to buy you a suit.”

“I would say no,” Clark said firmly, confirming Bruce’s suspicions. “I’d rather all these gossip websites write about how Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne’s middle-class boyfriend, showed up to a Wayne Foundation event wearing a suit he bought at Men’s Wearhouse than have them write about how Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne’s sugar baby, showed up to a Wayne Foundation event wearing a custom suit Bruce Wayne  _ bought _ for him. See the difference?”

“I do,” Bruce said. “And I respect your decision.” Clark was completely right. Either way, people were going to say things about him – either about his substandard fashion sense or the fact that he was taking advantage of Bruce’s wealth – and obviously Clark would rather appear frugal and unfashionable than exploitative and shallow. Not that Bruce would think Clark was shallow for letting Bruce buy things for him every now and then.

“Thank you,” Clark said, satisfied with Bruce’s response.

A stretch of silence passed between them before Bruce added, fighting a smirk the whole time, “You’re not my sugar baby, though. You’re too old.”

Clark shot him a look. “We’re the same age.”

“Exactly. You’d have to be younger than me to be my sugar baby.”

“My point still stands. I’m not letting you buy me anything.”

They left the bar shortly after. It was the first time in several months that Bruce left a bar without reflexively reaching for a cigarette; drinking always made him want to smoke, the two bad habits inextricably linked together, but he’d gotten used to not smoking around Clark and was even starting to cut back on his own time. He thought Clark would be pleased at what a good influence he was having on Bruce.

Clark walked Bruce to his car, which he’d parked a few blocks down on the street. “See you Friday, then?” Clark confirmed.

“Friday. Be there early if you can.” Bruce unlocked his car, but before he got in, he turned to face Clark, remembering something. “We should kiss,” he said matter-of-factly. On a Saturday night in Gotham, there were plenty of people out on the streets, making their way to and from bars, clubs, and restaurants. Maybe one of them would snap a picture, maybe not, but it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Right,” Clark said. He stepped into Bruce’s space, pulling him close for a slow, almost sweet, open-mouthed kiss. It was, Bruce’s mind dimly registered, the first time Clark had initiated a kiss between them. Hopefully that meant Clark was still feeling comfortable with their arrangement.

The kiss lasted for several long moments before Clark pulled away, and for another moment longer they maintained eye contact, neither of them saying anything. Bruce’s instinct, borne from the countless times he’d done this with different people, was to invite Clark back to the Manor, because that was what he did when he kissed people outside his car, and he spent about four solid seconds living in that fantasy before he remembered this was  _ Clark _ , and none of it was real.

Suddenly feeling the need to get away from the situation, Bruce broke eye contact and got in the car. He waved goodbye to Clark through the window and took off down the street.

It wasn’t that Bruce had never thought about Clark like that before. There weren’t many attractive people his age who Bruce  _ hadn’t _ thought about like that. But thinking about it privately and thinking about it when Clark was right there, kissing him, were two completely different experiences, and the latter was far more complicated and confusing than the former.

By the time Bruce reached Wayne Manor, he had dismissed the experience as nothing more than a side effect of kissing someone very attractive and resolved not to dwell on it.

Friday rolled around, and Bruce came home from work earlier than usual to get ready for the fundraiser that evening. Once he was dressed and his hair immaculately styled, he met Alfred in the kitchen, where the butler was directing the caterers in his usual practiced and professional fashion. Alfred paused in his work and turned his attention to Bruce when Bruce entered the room.

“I’ve invited Clark to join me at the fundraiser tonight,” he told Alfred. “As my date.” The words carried an unspoken request:  _ Please don’t embarrass me like you did when I had Clark over for breakfast. _

“I look forward to seeing him,” Alfred replied, and the gleam of mischief in his eyes added,  _ Me? Embarrass you? Perish the thought. _

“I might invite him to stay after for drinks.”

“An excellent idea.”

Clark arrived early, just as Bruce had requested. He was wearing The Suit, but he still looked good. He would look good in anything. (He would look good in nothing, Bruce’s brain unhelpfully added.)

“How do I look?” Clark asked, gesturing down at The Suit like he could read Bruce’s mind, which Bruce very much hoped he could not.

“You realize I’ve seen you in that suit at least a dozen times,” Bruce reminded him.

“Oh, more than that. I’ve worn this to every formal event I’ve attended since I started working at the  _ Daily Planet _ .”

“You look good,” Bruce told him honestly. “You always look good.”

Clark looked genuinely pleased. “Thanks. So do you.”

“Are you ready for tonight?” Bruce asked, eager to change the subject.

“I think the hardest part will be reminding myself that I’m not here to work,” Clark answered. “This is the first time I’ve attended one of these as a guest instead of as a reporter.”

“Don’t forget about all the pretentious rich people you’ll have to put up with for the next three hours.”

“I can handle pretentious rich people,” Clark said, grinning. “I handle you, don’t I?”

“Ouch,” Bruce said, though he couldn’t deny it. He was rich, he was pretentious. Guilty on both charges. “The first guests should start arriving soon. Let’s wait in the ballroom.”

The fundraiser began as all high society events did, with a gradual trickle of people who were actually on time followed by a much larger crowd of people who were fashionably late. Bruce gave a quick speech about the work the Foundation had accomplished in 2008 and what it had planned for 2009. There was even more work to do than usual, with the recession in full swing and increasing numbers of people facing poverty, and he hoped the assembled crowds of rich people would keep that in mind when making their donations.

Bruce kept his eyes on Clark, who was lingering at the edge of the room, while he did the rounds shaking donors’ hands and suffering through tone-deaf conversations about their yachts and business ventures and vacation homes. After half an hour of this, he finally managed to excuse himself to go over to Clark, who was looking at him with a bemused smile.

“What?” Bruce asked.

“Nothing,” Clark said. “Just thinking about the first time I met you at one of these. I didn’t know you well enough then to tell how unhappy you were to be there. You do a good job of hiding it.”

“I don’t like parties,” Bruce said quietly, for Clark’s ears only. “I like them even less when I have to play host.” He glanced longingly at the doors that led out to the balcony. What he wouldn’t give for a smoke right now.

Clark followed Bruce’s gaze. “I won’t judge you if you do,” he said, giving Bruce the permission he hadn’t realized he was waiting for.

Bruce glanced at Clark sideways, surprised. “Yes you will,” he contested. Clark shook his head.

“I never judge you,” he said seriously. “I’m worried about your health, but I don’t judge you for it.”

A complicated knot of feelings landed in Bruce’s stomach. He ignored it. “I didn’t bring any cigarettes anyway.” He turned his attention back to the crowd, scanning for any new faces, new arrivals he hadn’t greeted yet.

He found one. High heels, black dress, dark hair cropped short. He’d recognize her anywhere. Before Bruce could think of what to do next, she caught his gaze and walked toward him, slipping effortlessly through the crowd.

“What is it?” Clark asked, watching Bruce’s expression change.

“Someone I wasn’t expecting to see tonight,” Bruce replied under his breath, schooling his expression into one of mild surprise. “Ms. Kyle,” Bruce said once she was within earshot, shooting her a glance that hopefully communicated his mixed emotions in an accurate way:  _ I’m glad to see you’re doing well, but what the fuck are you doing  _ here _? _ “Good evening. I don’t remember seeing your name on the guest list.”  _ I know your name wasn’t on the guest list, not that that has ever stopped you. _

“You must have missed it,” Selina said sweetly, with a smile sharp enough to cut steel. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.”

“Has it?” Bruce had run into Catwoman just weeks ago, but if Selina meant that it had been a while since they’d seen each other outside their costumes, then yes, he supposed that was true.

“It has,” Selina insisted. Her piercing gaze turned to Clark, taking him in. She looked him up and down and pursed her lips like she’s reached some sort of conclusion that she didn’t plan on revealing. “Are you going to introduce me?” she asked Bruce.

“Selina, this is Clark Kent. Clark, this is Selina Kyle.”

Selina extended a perfectly manicured hand, glittering with diamonds. Bruce thought he recognized a bracelet that he’d just seen one of his donors wearing. “So nice to meet you, Clark. What do you do?”

“I’m an investigative journalist for the  _ Daily Planet _ ,” Clark said.

“Sounds exciting. And how do you know Bruce?”

Bruce looked up at the ceiling. Oh, God, here it was. “We’re dating,” Clark said simply.

Selina’s smile widened into a grin. Bruce felt like he finally understood what people meant when they said someone looked like “the cat that caught the canary.” “Really?”

“Surely you’ve seen us in the news lately,” Bruce interjected.

“I did see that you decided to come out,” Selina said, the edge gone from her voice, the sharpness gone from her smile. She sounded sincere. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Bruce said, and he was sincere too. “It wasn’t how I wanted it to happen.”

Selina looked sympathetic. She was the second person Bruce had ever come out to, Alfred being the first. It had helped that she was also bisexual. It was one of the many ways they understood each other, in a completely different way from how Bruce and Clark understood each other. “How did the two of you meet?” she asked.

“Through work,” Bruce said.

“Makes sense.” Selina turned to Clark. “Bruce is always working.”

Picking up on the friendlier, less tense energy between Bruce and Selina, Clark visibly relaxed. “I can’t criticize him too much,” he admitted. “I’m the same way. And what do you do, Ms. Kyle?”

There was that grin again. “I’m a collector.” Sure. That was one way of putting it.

“And how do you know Bruce?”

“Also through work,” Bruce said, before Selina could answer.

“That, and we used to…” Selina paused. “‘Date’ isn’t the right word, but something like that. On-again, off-again. Neither of us were very good at commitment.”

Bruce stepped in again before this could turn into a conversation about his relationship history. “Clark, can you get me another drink?” He shot Clark a look that hopefully said something along the lines of  _ I know this is weird, please bear with me. _

Seeming to catch Bruce’s meaning, Clark smiled and said, “Sure.”

Bruce knew he was trusting Clark not to use his super hearing to eavesdrop on them when, once Clark had disappeared into the crowd, he hissed to Selina, “What are you doing here?”

“I saw the news and I couldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes,” Selina replied, taking Bruce’s cue and whispering. “He’s cute. I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type, though. I did my reading. Small-town Kansas. No criminal record. Only ever dated women. Kind of a Boy Scout, isn’t he?”

It did not escape Bruce that this was pretty much the same first impression Bruce had had of Clark when they’d met. “He’s much more, once you get to know him.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Selina frowned in the direction that Clark had gone. “Does he know?”

Bruce didn’t need to ask what she meant.  _ Does he know you’re Batman? _ “Yes, actually.”

Selina’s head snapped around to look at him, shocked. “Wait, really?” Her lipsticked mouth formed an O. Bruce could see her making calculations behind her eyes. “You’re serious about him,” she deduced.

“He knew before we started dating,” Bruce explained, talking her down. “We’ve been friends for a while.”

“And how long have you been in love with him?”

“I’m not—” Bruce shook his head. Selina had it all wrong. “We’re not actually dating. He’s helping me with my image. Now that I’m out, I don’t want the thing people associate me – and, by extension, bisexuality – with to be sleeping around. I need to look like I’m capable of commitment.”

Selina looked at him skeptically but didn’t say anything. Instead, she reached out over Bruce’s shoulder, taking a champagne flute from Clark, who’d just returned with a trio of drinks. “Is that for me? Thank you, Clark.” She gave Bruce one final look that said,  _ I don’t believe you. _

* * *

_ Clark _

Clark wasn’t sure what to make of Selina Kyle. It was obvious she and Bruce knew each other quite well, so it was odd that Bruce had never mentioned her. He resolved to look her up later; if she was ever in any kind of relationship with Bruce, there had to be something about the two of them online.

Selina lingered around Bruce for the majority of the fundraiser, and though she made sure to include Clark in the conversation, he couldn’t help but feel like there was a separate, subtextual conversation going on between her and Bruce that he wasn’t party to. Whatever they were to each other now, Bruce and Selina clearly had history, and from what Clark was picking up from them, it was a very complicated history indeed.

Toward the end of the evening, Bruce finally broke away to start saying his goodbyes to some of the donors who were leaving. Almost as soon as he was engaged in conversation with someone else across the room, Selina turned to Clark, giving Clark the instant impression that he was being judged. No, not judged. Tested. He mentally prepared himself for some variation of the classic “if you break Bruce’s heart, I’ll kill you.” Despite his superpowers, something in the way Selina held herself, like a jungle cat about to pounce, told Clark she could definitely hurt him if she tried.

“What’s your impression of him so far?” she asked Clark, eyes glittering in the light of the chandelier hanging above their heads.

“Bruce and I have known each other for a while,” Clark reminded her.

“I know. But what do you think of him? Aside from the obvious. Handsome, smart, rich. What do you  _ really _ think of him?”

It was a deeply personal question coming from someone Clark had only just met, but Clark knew what his answer was, and he didn’t see any reason to lie. “I think he’s a good person whose number one concern is doing what’s right.”

“And?” Selina prompted. Somehow she knew there was more.

“And I think he cares more than he lets on,” Clark added, only a bit reluctantly. If Selina understood Bruce as well as she seemed to, Clark wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

Selina smiled like this was the right answer. Like she  _ had _ been testing Clark, and he’d passed. She turned away and Clark watched her eyes find Bruce in the crowd, that smile lingering on her face. “Be gentle with him,” she said, a certain softness in her voice that Clark hadn’t heard from her yet that evening. “I know he acts like he doesn’t need it. He does.”

Selina left without saying goodbye to Bruce. The ballroom finally cleared, and Bruce invited Clark into his study for drinks.

“You really dated her?” Clark asked over a glass of whiskey he was only drinking to be polite.

“Like she said, ‘dated’ isn’t the right word for it,” Bruce explained. “But we were… together. On and off. Now we’re friends. Like you and Lois.” He leaned back in his armchair, glass in hand, and added observantly, “You look overwhelmed.”

“She’s a lot to take in,” Clark said honestly. “Not in a bad way.”

“I know exactly what you mean.”

“It was a bit like meeting you for the first time. The mood of a room completely changes when you walk into it. I must be used to it by now, because it doesn’t strike me the way it used to, but I remember the feeling.”

“It’s not that you’ve gotten used to it,” Bruce said. “That version of me is an act. And I don’t put that act on around you anymore.”

Bruce was fastidiously avoiding eye contact, but Clark stared at him all the same. He knew, of course, that Bruce put on an act when he went out into the world, but it hadn’t occurred to Clark how special it was that he got to see a truer, less edited version of Bruce when they spent time together. Clark knew he was on a very short list of people who had that privilege.

“I like this version of you better,” Clark said, and he knew he was dancing dangerously close to talking about _feelings_ , which was the easiest way to freak Bruce out, but it was important to Clark that Bruce know this.

Bruce twirled his empty crystal tumbler in his hands. Seconds ticked by. Clark thought about what Selina had said to him:  _ Be gentle with him. _ He was pretty sure he knew what Selina meant. Bruce made a convincing show of being walled-off and emotionless, but underneath it all, he was still only human. He did have feelings, no matter how hard he tried to repress them. And he needed people, even though he might resent that fact. Clark liked to think Bruce needed him. In what way, exactly, Clark didn’t know, but… in some way.

“I told Selina it’s not real,” Bruce said abruptly, interrupting the thoughtful silence that had settled between them. “Our relationship.” Clark nodded. That made sense. After all, he’d told Lois. Bruce finally looked Clark in the eyes, his gaze as intense as it always was. “I also told her that you know that I’m Batman.”

“She knows about that?” Clark asked, surprised. Bruce nodded. “I guess you guys are a lot like me and Lois.”

Bruce continued to stare at him, and he looked like he was working up to say something, so Clark waited for him to do so. “Why did you and Lois break up?” Bruce finally asked. “I don’t think you ever told me.”

“I don’t think you ever asked.” Bruce and Clark had never really talked about their relationships with each other. Bruce knew about Lois, that she and Clark had dated and then broken up and decided to remain friends, but that, Clark was pretty sure, was all he knew. “Lois and I were great together,” Clark began, a variation of what he’d told his parents, and everyone else who’d asked about their breakup. “I think we really helped each other grow, as people. But at some point we realized we’d grown so much we weren’t the same people we were when we fell in love with each other. Some people grow together in a relationship and it makes the relationship stronger, but instead, Lois and I grew apart. We still liked each other, but we didn’t fit together the way we used to.”

Clark looked down at his hands folded in his lap. It didn’t hurt the way it used to, remembering the end of his and Lois’ relationship, but it didn’t feel good to think about, either. He’d been so convinced that Lois was it, she was The One, and they would be together forever. Realizing that they wouldn’t had required Clark to completely restructure the way he thought about his life and his future. “It took us a long time to realize that, I think because neither of us wanted to, but once we did, we both knew there was no going back.”  He paused, then asked, “What about you and Selina? What made the two of you break it off?”

Bruce’s answer was much simpler. “I think we both believed the other person deserved more than we could give them.”

“Do you still have feelings for her?” The question took Clark by surprise when he asked it. It surprised him even more to realize that he very much wanted Bruce’s answer to be “no.”

“No,” Bruce said. “I care about her. But not the way you mean, no.”

Simultaneously, both Clark and Bruce seemed to realize just how deep their conversation had gotten. Clark cleared his throat awkwardly, and Bruce set down his empty glass, glaring at it like it was the reason he was talking about  _ feelings _ .

“It’s late,” Bruce said, looking at his watch. “Do you need to get home?”

“I probably should.” They both stood, walking the familiar route to the front door. They said their goodbyes and Clark took off into the sky, the cold wind on his face a welcome distraction from the overwhelming evening he’d just had.

Bruce called Clark the next day when Clark was at lunch with Lois. “Sorry, do you mind?” Clark asked her, holding up his buzzing phone. “I can tell him to call back later.”

Lois waved a hand. They spent enough time together that neither of them were offended when the other had to take a personal call in the middle of their hangouts. “Knock yourself out,” she said, reaching across their table for two. “As long as I can steal your fries while you’re gone.”

Clark stepped away, lingering outside the restrooms so he wouldn’t interrupt anyone else’s meal with his phone call. “Hello?”

“There’s something I meant to mention last night, after the fundraiser,” Bruce said. “One of the donors I was talking to gave me an idea for something we could do to make our relationship appear more serious. He was talking about a vacation he and his new wife – his fourth wife, by the way, so I’m taking his relationship advice with a grain of salt – just took to Fiji. I don’t know how hard it would be for you to get time off from work, but if you can, it might be something we should think about. Going on vacation, I mean, not going to Fiji.”

“You know how I feel about you buying things for me,” Clark said, unsure about this idea. “Paying for me to go on vacation is kind of the same principle.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I haven’t been on a real vacation in years, and I would probably never go on one if you didn’t come with me? I’m not trying to manipulate you into saying yes; that’s just the truth. You know I have a hard time being away from Gotham. But I think this might be a worthwhile strategy.”

Clark was torn. He knew Bruce was right about it being an effective way to convince people their relationship was serious. But his parents had instilled a strong work ethic in him, and it felt wrong to take things from people that he hadn’t earned. “I don’t know,” he said after several seconds of consideration. “You’ll have to let me think about it.”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “Take all the time you need.”

“How long would we be gone?” Clark asked. “A week?”

“It depends on where we go, but a week is good for most places.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know.”

Clark hung up and returned to his table, where Lois had polished off his remaining french fries. “Who was that?” she asked.

“Bruce,” Clark said. “He thinks we should go on vacation together.”

“As part of your fake relationship scheme?”

“Yeah.”

Lois hummed thoughtfully. “It’s the perfect time for it.” It would be February soon, that final stretch of winter that seemed to drag on forever, the dreariest and most dismal time of year. It  _ was _ the perfect time to get away. “But you don’t want to go because he’d pay for it,” she accurately surmised. “And he wouldn’t just pay for it; he’d go all out. You know what rich people are like. Private jet, some fancy resort on an island.”

“Exactly,” Clark said, glad Lois understood where he was coming from.

“But think of how much you’ve done for him lately,” Lois pointed out. “You’ve come out to the entire world and put your love life on hold to pretend to be his boyfriend for a year. That’s more than most people would do for… well, anyone. He probably feels like he owes you. The least he can do is take you on vacation.”

As always, Lois had a point. “I told him I’d think about it,” Clark said.

“Do that.” Lois paused. “Are you going to finish your milkshake?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I mixed up the timeline at several points throughout this story. I originally had the past 8 chapters taking place in fall and winter 2008, but halfway through writing them I forgot and thought I’d set them in winter and spring 2008. I’ve gone back and fixed (hopefully) all the inconsistencies and returned to my original timeline. This chapter takes place in January 2009.
> 
> Side note, I love Selina Kyle but I’ve never written her into one of my stories before because frankly she intimidates me? We’re facing our fears today people.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with the idea to have these two go on vacation and then I Googled where billionaires and celebrities go on vacation and realized I haven’t been to any of those places. So I picked a place I have been because despite the fact that I exclusively write gay superhero fanfiction I do strive for realism in my work.

_ Bruce _

“Have you given the idea of going on vacation together any more thought?” Bruce asked over lunch one Sunday. He and Clark had employed their now-familiar trick of being seen around Gotham all weekend – dinner on Friday, live music on Saturday, and now their Sunday lunch – to give people the impression that Clark had spent the weekend with Bruce. In truth, Clark flew back to Metropolis after each of these “dates,” which was probably for the best. Bruce liked spending time with Clark, but he was still very much an introvert, and the thought of spending three uninterrupted days in someone else’s company made him twitchy.

If they did go on vacation together, Bruce thought, they would need to schedule plenty of time apart from each other, or he might go insane.

“I have,” Clark said noncommittally, meeting Bruce’s gaze but not elaborating.

“And?” Bruce prompted.

Clark frowned and leaned back in his chair. He looked torn. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “If I’m honest, I could really use some time off from work right now, so I’d probably enjoy it.”

“But you still haven’t decided,” Bruce deduced.

“I know you probably think I’m being stubborn,” Clark said, “But try to look at this from my perspective. You grew up surrounded by wealth. I know you're not naive, but to some extent you’ll never really understand what life is like for the average American. Going on an impulsive week-long vacation potentially out of the country is something you can just… do. That’s never been the case for me. Yes, I can fly anywhere I want, but to go on vacation, I have to get the time off work, I have to book the hotel, I need to have enough money saved for food, entertainment, souvenirs, any fun activities. I can’t drop everything and _go_ the way you can.”

Though Bruce didn’t think this was an entirely accurate representation of his situation, he would admit Clark had a point. He didn’t understand what life was like for most people. He never had to worry about whether he had enough money to pay his bills, feed himself, and cover any unexpected expenses. He never had to worry that a health emergency would bankrupt him. He didn’t even have to work if he didn’t want to. He could live a life of relaxation and luxury if he so desired, invest the money his parents had left him and still make more than the average nine-to-five job. He could travel anywhere at any time for any reason.

“I wouldn’t say I could drop everything,” he said, his one point of disagreement with Clark. “I do have responsibilities, to Wayne Enterprises and the Wayne Foundation and to Gotham.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean you can just leave for a week with no consequences,” Clark corrected. “All I meant to say was that you’re financially capable of it. Responsibilities aside, you could get on your private jet today and fly around the world and it wouldn’t make a dent.”

“That’s true,” Bruce admitted.

Clark continued, “To me, what you’re offering feels like an extravagance. It’s one thing for you to buy me drinks or dinner. Plenty of people have done that for me before, Perry or Lois or people I’m meeting for work. This is different.”

Bruce could understand the distinction. But there was one thing he wasn’t completely clear on. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it about me spending money on you that bothers you, specifically?”

Clark’s answer was immediate. “I don’t like taking things I haven’t earned.”

“It’s not like most wealthy people ‘earned’ what they have,” Bruce reasoned. “I was born into money. I more or less inherited my position at Wayne Enterprises. Had I been born into an average, middle-class family, I probably never would have become a billionaire.” The thought made Bruce more than a little uncomfortable, not because he couldn’t imagine his life without his vast wealth – most people made it through life without any significant amount of wealth and, though they had financial struggles, they mostly managed to live happy, meaningful lives – but because he couldn’t imagine what his life would be like if he’d never become Batman, which he wouldn’t have been able to were it not for his wealth.

“It also feels wrong to take advantage of a free vacation when so many people are suffering right now,” Clark replied.

This, Bruce could understand easily. Bruce’s wealth wasn’t his primary source of guilt; when he lay awake at night, it wasn’t the fact that he lived a life of luxury while so many others barely scraped by that tormented him. Instead, it was usually the lives he’d failed to save, the criminals he’d failed to bring to justice, and, always underneath it all, the fact that he had lived and his parents had died. Survivor’s guilt. But his wealth was  _ a _ source of guilt. One of many. Though it motivated him in a more positive way; he tried to use his financial advantage to make a difference in other people’s lives.

“People are always suffering. All over the world,” he said, and he knew he sounded callous but he also knew he was being realistic. “We do what we can to lessen their suffering, you more than most, but you not going on vacation doesn’t do anything to help anyone.”

He paused to see if his words were having any effect, but Clark still looked skeptical. Bruce looked away momentarily, gathering his thoughts. He had another argument, one that always came to mind when Clark gave him a hard time about paying for things but one he’d never used. He didn’t particularly want to use it now, and tried to talk himself out of it. It didn’t matter, really, whether they went on vacation or not. They’d make the fake relationship work either way. But if Clark continued to believe he could never take anything from Bruce, even things Bruce was happy to offer, then they were only going to run into more problems in the future.

Better to head it off now, even if it meant admitting something personal.

“Believe it or not,” Bruce said, looking at Clark again, “I understand where you’re coming from. No one wants to feel indebted to someone else.” He glanced down at their food, which was going cold. Eating was no longer his primary focus, and it didn’t seem to be Clark’s either. “That was one of the main reasons I disliked you for so long when we first met. Do you know how many times you’ve saved my life? And I’ve saved yours too, but nowhere near as often. I didn’t like feeling indebted to you. I still don’t enjoy it, but I’ve accepted it.”

Clark’s face changed. “You don’t have to feel indebted to me for saving your life,” he said immediately, and he didn’t just sound like he meant it; he sounded like he wanted Bruce to  _ know _ he meant it. Which Bruce did. Bruce had never felt like it was an inconvenience for Clark to have to rescue him in certain situations. But he also didn’t like to be reminded of the imbalance between them, and he thought Clark might feel similarly when it came to money.

“You don’t have to feel indebted to me for spending money on you,” Bruce retorted. “If you don’t want to go on vacation, that’s fine. But if you’re just saying no out of guilt, that’s not a good reason.”

Clark looked at him for a long time, then looked away, noticing, as Bruce had, the uneaten food on his plate. He picked up his fork and they settled into eating while Clark thought.

“If we did go somewhere,” Clark finally said, out of the blue, “Where would we go?”

“I don’t have a particular place in mind,” Bruce said. “Somewhere we’re likely to be seen, and where people are likely to recognize us. Somewhere with a lot of American tourists. Would you prefer a tropical destination, or would you rather go skiing?” Bruce actually quite enjoyed skiing, but he didn’t know how Clark felt about it.

“I’m sick of winter,” Clark said, frowning up at the sun like it wasn’t doing its job well enough. “Somewhere tropical.”

“We could go to Hawaii. Or Puerto Rico,” Bruce suggested. “Plenty of American tourists, since they’re both  _ in _ America.”

“I’ve never been to either. Which one’s cheaper?”

“Clark,” Bruce warned.

“I’m serious,” Clark rebutted.

Bruce sighed. “Gotham to San Juan is a much shorter flight than Gotham to Honolulu. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Shorter meaning cheaper,” Clark correctly inferred.

“Choose based on where you want to go, not what’s cheaper.”

“I’m sure I’d enjoy either. To be honest, I’ve never been on a week-long tropical vacation before. The closest I’ve come are weekends at Rehoboth with Lois.”

Bruce was about to open his mouth and say that a weekend at Rehoboth wasn’t really the same as a week on an island, but he didn’t think it would help his case. “I don’t have a lot of experience with it either,” he admitted. “I don’t go on vacation often, and when I was young, my parents usually took me to historical locations or places with cultural significance. And I’ve been to England with Alfred many times. But sitting on a beach relaxing isn’t something I’ve done much of.”

Clark chuckled, a welcome reprieve from his earlier seriousness. “The mental image of you relaxing on a beach for a week is almost absurd enough to convince me to agree to this.” He took another bite of his pasta, watching Bruce the whole time like the answer was in Bruce’s face. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll talk to Perry and see about getting a week off in March. I don’t know that he’ll say yes, but if he does… I’ll go to Puerto Rico with you.”

Clark texted the very next day to say that Perry had agreed to let him have a week off in March, and Bruce started making plans. Weeks went by in the way that they tend to do when planning something in a limited amount of time, and it was late at night on another Sunday when Bruce texted Clark again:

_ Our flight is on Saturday morning. Meet at the Manor at 7AM. _

Three minutes passed before Bruce’s phone lit up on his desk next to him. He picked it up.

“I’m sorry,” Clark said, voice a little fuzzy like he’d been settling in to go to sleep when he’d gotten the text, “I think someone must have hacked your phone, because I just got a text from you saying we need to leave for the airport on Saturday at seven AM.”

He was joking, but Bruce still rolled his eyes at his dramatics. “Seven AM is the correct time. The flight leaves at eight-thirty.”

A pause, like Clark was puzzling something out. “Doesn’t the plane take off whenever you want it to? I thought that was the whole point of having your own plane.”

“We’re flying commercial.”

Another pause, longer this time, this one laden with disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Why?”

Bruce knew they’d end up having this conversation. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to take my private jet. You don’t even like it when we get into a restaurant with a reservation.”

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Clark insisted, but he didn’t sound displeased.

“We’ll still be in first class,” Bruce said dismissively. “In terms of compromises, it’s hardly a sacrifice on my end.” This wasn’t entirely true. Bruce hated flying commercial. He hated the lines, the crowds, and being confined to a seat, even a first class one. He hated sharing a plane with crying babies and kicking children and nervous fliers. It was immensely self-centered of him, but flying was already a deeply unenjoyable experience and being surrounded by people the whole time only made it worse. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Clark, because that would mean admitting that he  _ was _ making a sacrifice for Clark, and he didn’t think Clark would want that.

“Where are we staying?” Clark asked.

Bruce was grateful for the change of subject. “A resort on the beach,” he said. It was a five-star resort, to be specific, but again, Bruce wasn’t volunteering that information.

“Fancy. Okay. Saturday at seven AM. Seven… in the morning. You’re sure about that?”

Bruce could hear the smirk in Clark’s voice, so he answered honestly. “I’m not going to fucking enjoy it, and I probably won’t be very fun to be around, but I can sleep on the plane.”

“I thought you were perfectly pleasant to be around when you invited me to breakfast,” Clark pointed out.

“Anything nice I said to you then was the caffeine talking.”

“The caffeine is very nice, then. I like the caffeine a lot.”

Once again, Bruce knew Clark was joking, so there was no reason for the small burst of sunny warmth in his chest at Clark’s words. He ignored it. “I’ll tell the caffeine you said so.”

* * *

_ Clark _

Clark landed in front of Wayne Manor with his suitcase in hand at seven AM sharp. He’d resolved not to feel guilty about the free vacation he was about to go on. Lois’ comments about how Clark was going above and beyond for Bruce by pretending to date him, on top of Bruce’s comments about how he felt indebted to Clark for all the times Clark had saved his life – which, Clark could not stress enough, Bruce really didn’t need to feel, because Clark would save him again and again, every time Bruce needed it, and never ask for anything in return, Bruce still being alive was reward enough – had, if not completely convinced him, at least shown him that he had no reason to keep saying no. If Clark were to refuse Bruce’s offer, at this point, he knew it would be out of nothing more than stubborn pride, and that wasn’t helpful to anyone.

Alfred answered the door when Clark knocked and led Clark to the kitchen, where Bruce was hunched over a cup of coffee, looking dead to the world. Upon seeing Clark, Bruce sat up and drained the rest of the coffee. He winced when he stood, and Clark knew without needing to ask that he’d been injured the night before, and he did a quick sweep of Bruce’s body with his x-ray vision to confirm that at least he hadn’t broken any bones.

“How are you feeling?” Clark asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Like shit,” Bruce grumbled, rolling his suitcase behind him as he took Clark to the garage, Alfred trailing behind them.

“Will you be driving us?” Clark asked, trying and most likely failing to mask his concern. Bruce didn’t seem like he was in any fit state to drive. Clark would offer to take the wheel, but he hadn’t driven since high school and he didn’t trust himself with any of Bruce’s luxury vehicles.

“No,” Bruce said emphatically, apparently agreeing with Clark’s assessment of his current abilities. “Alfred’s dropping us off.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want to spend my week off visiting you in the hospital.” He said it like a joke, but Clark was very serious. It took him by surprise, sometimes, how much he worried about Bruce. Clark was a naturally protective person, but Bruce turned his dial up to eleven, and it definitely had something to do with Bruce’s cavalier attitude toward his own health and safety, but that wasn’t all there was to it.

“I’ll have you know I’ve driven under far worse conditions than these,” Bruce countered.

Clark gave him a look. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

They climbed into a shiny black BMW SUV, their bags in the trunk and Alfred in the driver’s seat. “Well, Master Clark,” Alfred said as he pulled out onto the road. Bruce was in the passenger seat, wearing dark sunglasses even though the sun was barely up and leaning his head against the window. Clark had the spacious backseat to himself. “I hope you got more sleep last night than Master Bruce or I did.”

Of course, Clark hadn’t thought that Alfred would also be running on barely a few hours’ sleep; he stayed up in the Batcave when Bruce went out into Gotham. Although Alfred somehow managed to look well-rested while Bruce seemed barely conscious.

“This isn’t much earlier than I wake up every day for work,” Clark said.

“How on earth do you do it?” Bruce asked, sipping from a thermos of more steaming hot coffee.

“I go to bed before dawn,” Clark said frankly. “And I don’t actually need to sleep. I just do it because it’s more enjoyable than laying at night listening to everything going on in my apartment building.” Usually that meant listening to people snoring, babies crying, couples arguing or having sex, and night-shift workers coming home. It wasn’t a fun time. Sleep was way better.

Alfred drove on in silence for several minutes before turning the radio on, tuning to NPR. Bruce didn’t complain. After listening to the tail end of a segment on the coup in Madagascar, Alfred spoke up again: “Do both of you have everything you need? You don’t need me to stop anywhere for any last-minute items?”

“I triple-checked last night,” Clark said. “I have everything.”

“If I forgot anything I’m sure I can get it there,” Bruce said.

Alfred hummed his disapproval but didn’t argue. Instead, he asked Clark, “Have you ever been to Puerto Rico, Master Clark?”

“I haven’t.”

“Lovely place. There’s really no going back to the beaches of England once you’ve visited an island like that.”

“Beaches are one of the few things Alfred will admit America does better than England,” Bruce explained. Clark had never been to an English beach, but he’d seen pictures, and he had to agree. The beaches in America were undoubtedly superior.

“I assume Bruce going on vacation means you get the week off, Alfred,” Clark said.

“I will be keeping an eye on things here in Gotham, but otherwise, yes,” Alfred replied.

“I didn’t think about that.” Bruce had mentioned, hadn’t he, that he hadn’t been on vacation in a long time because he didn’t like to leave Gotham, and Clark had known what he’d meant – that Bruce didn’t like to think about what might happen if Batman wasn’t around – but Clark hadn’t given it much thought since then. He’d been so hung up on his own mixed feelings about the trip and hadn’t considered Bruce’s feelings at all. He knew Bruce was anxious, bordering on paranoid, when it came to Gotham, so he must have been uncomfortable with the idea of being gone for a week, and here Clark had been too focused on himself to notice. “Bruce, what will you do if something happens in Gotham while we’re gone?” he asked.

“You’ll have to fly me back,” Bruce said matter-of-factly, like it was a foregone conclusion. And that was fair; if there was an emergency in Gotham and Bruce needed to get back quickly, of course Clark would give him a lift. But Clark knew Bruce, and he knew that Bruce  _ hated _ relying on Clark’s powers, so it was significant that Bruce would so readily put himself in a situation where he had no choice but to rely on Clark. Even more significant than Bruce buying them commercial airline tickets instead of taking his private jet, or waking up early to catch said flight.

Then Bruce continued, “The only reason I feel comfortable doing this is because it’s with you, and if something goes wrong we can be in Gotham or anywhere else in the world at a moment’s notice.”

_ The only reason I feel comfortable doing this is because it’s with you. _ The phrase bounced around in Clark’s mind for the remainder of their trip to the airport. Clark realized he could relate. The only reason he’d felt comfortable proposing the fake relationship plan in the first place was because he’d be doing it with Bruce, and he trusted Bruce with… well, with everything.

The airport was busy when they arrived. “Must be spring break,” Bruce guessed as they rolled their luggage across the lobby to the check-in counters. There was a separate line for first class passengers, so they got their bags checked and their boarding passes printed in a matter of minutes, despite the crowds. Clark didn’t fly often by plane, since he was able to fly on his own, but he did sometimes for work so he was familiar with the process. He and Bruce didn’t talk much as they got in line for security. The sterile, efficient atmosphere of an airport didn’t lend itself to engaging conversation.

They got through security without a hitch – IDs checked, shoes and jackets off, bags in the gray bins, laptops in their own separate bins, and Bruce quickly downed the rest of the coffee in his thermos so it was empty when he sent it through – and walked to their gate. “Under normal circumstances I’d wait in the airline lounge, but the whole point is for us to be seen, so I figure we should wait at the gate with everyone else,” Bruce explained. They were half an hour early, and Bruce asked Clark if he wanted anything from the coffee shop down the hall.

“How much coffee have you had?” Clark asked. “I thought you were going to sleep on the plane.”

Bruce looked at him for a long moment but seemed to see Clark’s point and sat back down next to him. After a few minutes, during which they were both reading books they’d brought with them in their carry-ons, Bruce reached an arm around Clark’s shoulders. Clark resisted turning to look at him in surprise; they were surrounded by people, a few of whom Clark had heard whispering their recognition, and they had to look natural. Clark settled comfortably – as comfortably as he could in the unyielding metal-and-plastic chairs – into Bruce’s solid warmth beside him until the gate attendant for their flight started calling out boarding groups, first passengers needing extra assistance, then first class passengers.

Clark and Bruce presented their tickets to the attendant, who didn’t seem to recognize Bruce at all (or else didn’t care). They boarded the plane, tucked their carry-on bags under the seats in front of them. Their first class seats were in the second row, each about the size of a smallish armchair with a television screen mounted in front of it and outlets for phone charging, within view of the cockpit. “Window or aisle?” Bruce asked.

“Oh, I don’t have a preference,” Clark said. Usually he preferred an aisle seat – who didn’t? – but it didn’t matter as much in first class.

Bruce took the window seat. They sat and waited through the rest of the boarding process, the safety briefing, and takeoff. As soon as they were allowed, Bruce leaned his chair back and closed his eyes, and Clark resolved himself to four hours in his own company. He’d brought his laptop with him to get some work done, although there was no way he was paying the exorbitant airline WiFi prices, so he couldn’t do much other than edit a few articles he’d already written.

The four hours passed surprisingly quickly, and Bruce woke when the captain announced that they were beginning their descent. He blinked his eyes blearily and ran a hand over his face; his hair had come out of place. Clark bit back a fond smile and turned his attention back to his book before Bruce could catch him looking.

“Sleep well?” he asked, turning a page.

“Better than I expected, actually,” Bruce said, his voice rough with sleep. Fuck, that was attractive. “Usually I can’t sleep on planes.”

“I can never sleep on planes,” Clark agreed. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Bruce stretched. His white shirt was wrinkled – of course Bruce had still dressed up in business attire to fly to their vacation destination – but if anything, Bruce only looked better slightly disheveled, compared to his usual aggressively perfect appearance. He looked… romantic. Clark had a sudden, surprising urge to lean over and kiss Bruce; they’d done it often enough that he could imagine exactly how it would feel, soft and warm and slow, like their very first kiss in Bruce’s study.

He shoved the thought away. They’d be landing soon. Over Bruce’s shoulder, outside the window, the plane dipped below the clouds and revealed the glittering azure blue of the Caribbean. It was a beautiful day in San Juan, and Clark wasn’t thinking about how much money Bruce had spent on them. Instead, he was thinking about how stressful the past year had been, and how good it felt to get away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the birds mentioned in this and the next chapter are based on real birds that I met in Puerto Rico. I like making bird friends when I travel.

_ Bruce _

Sleeping on a commercial flight, where there was only so much room to spread out and where even first class seats weren’t optimized for comfort, was always a dodgy situation. Despite feeling far more well-rested than he had when they’d left Gotham that morning, Bruce was sore all over, especially in the places where he’d gotten a bit beaten up the night before. His neck hurt when he turned it too far to the left, and when the “fasten seatbelt” sign turned off and everyone on the plane started standing up and collecting their carry-ons, Bruce found his legs had fallen asleep.

He decided, as they entered the San Juan Airport and followed the signs down to baggage claim, that he would definitely be taking advantage of the resort’s on-site spa at some point during the week.

He hadn’t eaten all day, but as they passed various quick-service restaurants, he found he wasn’t hungry. Something about airplanes and airports never failed to take away his appetite. He’d eat when they got to the resort.

“I hope the flight wasn’t too boring for you,” he said to Clark as they waited for their bags. “I realize I wasn’t very entertaining company.”

“Don’t worry about it, it was fine,” Clark replied. “I got some work done, did some reading, watched a movie.”

“What movie?”

“That terrible  _ Indiana Jones _ sequel that came out last year.” Clark shook his head. “It was just as disappointing as everyone said.”

Their bags finally tumbled onto the carousel, and Bruce led the way to the parking garage. “I rented a car in case we get sick of the beach and want to explore other parts of the island,” he explained.

“How long is the drive to the resort?” Clark asked.

“About an hour.”

Clark waited while Bruce got the keys to the rental car. They loaded their luggage into the trunk and Bruce plugged the resort’s address into the GPS that had come with the car.

“So what is this resort like?” Clark asked on the way there.

“I only know what they put on the website,” Bruce said. “But it sounds like it has just about everything. Multiple outdoor pools, restaurants and bars, gift shops, a golf course, a spa, and even a small island you can take a boat to, lay down on the beach with a margarita or something. At night you can kayak out to this bay that has bioluminescent algae.”

“It sounds incredible,” Clark said. Bruce hoped so. He very much wanted Clark to enjoy himself.

The drive from the San Juan Airport to the far eastern end of the island was largely uneventful, though the scenery along the highways that took them there could not have been more different from what Bruce was used to in New Jersey. Back home, winter was reluctantly giving way to spring, the temperatures creeping up into the forties and fifties during the day, the skies mostly gray and the nights cold. In San Juan, the sky was clear, the sun was shining, and the forecast promised temperatures in the high seventies and low eighties all week. Instead of driving past the tall buildings and dark alleys of Gotham, as they left San Juan behind, they drove past low houses with flat roofs, apartment complexes painted pastel shades, roadside stops advertising various drink and snack food brands with huge, colorful signs.

They didn’t talk the whole time, sometimes lapsing into silence as Bruce focused on the road and Clark looked out the passenger side window, taking everything in. The rental car had satellite radio, so Bruce didn’t have to try to find a local station that was playing something that interested him. He tuned into his favorite news channel and listened absently.

As they neared their destination, Bruce exited the highway into Fajardo, passing the familiar American staples, McDonald’s and Walmart. The roads took them through neighborhoods of more flat-roofed houses, local businesses, the occasional church, until finally the resort came into view.

“This is the place?” Clark asked as they pulled in.

“This is the place,” Bruce echoed, following the signs to guest parking.

“It’s beautiful.”

It was. It was exactly what anyone pictured when they imagined a beachside resort on an island: a complex of vast white buildings with orange roofs that glowed bright in the sun, square columns and plenty of palm trees and other greenery. It was built into the cliffside, overlooking the aquamarine waters below. It looked exactly like the pictures Bruce had scrolled through online when deciding where they should stay, and he wasn’t disappointed with his choice.

He parked the rental car and he and Clark rolled their suitcases into the lobby, past two decorative fountains. Bruce walked up to the front desk and checked in, gave Clark a room key and tucked the other into his back pocket.

“I’m starving,” Bruce said, the fact that he hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch finally hitting him. “Let’s take our stuff to the room and then get something to eat.”

“Sounds good,” Clark said. They crossed the lobby, and Clark stopped in front of a pair of large bird cages, one holding two large green-and-yellow parrots that were resting and picking at their food and the other holding an even larger white cockatoo that jumped up and down when they approached. Each of the cages had a sign posted next to them with the birds’ names and facts about them. One of the birds was an impressive eighty years old, and it certainly looked it. Bruce hadn’t known birds could look old, but this one definitely did. The hopping bird apparently knew how to say “hola,” and when Clark prompted it, it did so with the enthusiasm of a particularly excitable toddler, over and over until they walked away.

Past the lobby, there was a small collection of gift shops and a convenience shop with assorted drinks, snacks, toiletries, over-the-counter medicines, and first aid supplies. Bruce stopped in for sunscreen, which he’d just remembered he’d forgotten to pack. He had a strong suspicion that, by the end of the week, he was going to envy Clark’s immunity to sunburn.

After the shops, there was a casual restaurant and ice cream parlor, and then a set of stairs that led out into a courtyard filled with tropical plants, birds flitting between palm trees and a set of wicker chairs in a circle around a fire pit.

On the other side of the courtyard was the building they were staying in. Once inside, they took the elevator to the top floor and walked down the hall to their room. Bruce unlocked the door and led Clark inside.

Bruce had specifically booked an oceanside room. Past the king-sized bed made up with white sheets and facing a large flat-screen TV, a white L-shaped sofa with a small coffee table, and a small desk and chair, the curtains were flung open to show off the view. Crystalline water stretched out as far as the eye could see, with the notable exception of the small nearby resort-owned island Bruce had mentioned in the car. Once again, everything about it matched Bruce’s expectations. He was pleased that so far their trip was going according to plan.

Bruce left his suitcase by the bed and followed Clark out onto the balcony. “Okay, you’ve succeeded at impressing me,” Clark said. “If that was your goal.”

It wasn’t, exactly, but Bruce was still pleased to hear Clark say that. He wanted Clark to enjoy their vacation, even more than he wanted himself to enjoy it. Clark had been so hesitant to agree, and it was important to Bruce that Clark not regret his decision.

After what seemed like an appropriate amount of time standing and soaking in the view, Bruce’s stomach once again reminded him of its emptiness. “Ready for lunch?” he asked, turning to Clark.

Clark nodded, and they retraced their steps back down the elevator, out into the courtyard, and to the casual restaurant attached to the ice cream parlor. The host seated them and handed them each a menu. It was more of a family restaurant, not the sort of place Bruce would usually visit, but he was hungry and he knew this place would be faster than the nicer restaurant on the other side of the resort, the bar downstairs didn’t open for another hour or two, and Bruce didn’t feel like eating outside until he’d washed the feeling of airport off himself.

“What do you think so far?” Bruce asked.

“You know what I think,” Clark said. “I think this place is great. You knocked it out of the park.”

“Any idea what you want to do first?”

Clark looked over his shoulder at where an employee was serving ice cream to a family with two excited young children. He smiled. “After this, I’m definitely getting ice cream. That’s as far as I’ve figured out.”

“If there’s nothing you feel the need to do right away, I personally wouldn’t mind going back to our room and taking a shower,” Bruce admitted. “Plane rides always made me feel dirty. All that recycled air.”

“I know what you mean,” Clark said. “A shower would be nice. Then maybe we can take a walk around the resort.”

That sounded like a fine idea to Bruce. It would be a good way to ease into things and familiarize themselves with the resort’s amenities.

Their plans decided, they ate lunch quickly. Clark had mentioned snacking on the plane but Bruce didn’t think he’d eaten much outside of that, so he was probably almost as hungry as Bruce was. Then ice cream; Bruce usually wasn’t a fan of too much sugar, but he made an exception. After all, they were on vacation.

They paused in the courtyard to eat their ice cream, lingering between large-leafed plants in companionable silence. They hadn’t even been at the resort for an hour and Clark already looked more relaxed than Bruce had seen him in a long time.

Back in their room, Clark connected to the WiFi while Bruce started unpacking. “Take a look at this,” Clark said after several minutes, angling his laptop toward Bruce. Bruce leaned in to get a better look.

“Bruce Wayne and Boyfriend Spotted in Puerto Rico,” the headline read. Underneath, a photo of them rolling their suitcases into the resort lobby.

“That was fast,” Bruce remarked.

“No kidding,” Clark said, turning the laptop back around so he could read the rest of the article. “You were right about a vacation being an effective strategy. Listen to this: ‘Bruce Wayne, Wayne Enterprise CEO and, until recently, Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, was seen checking into a resort in Puerto Rico this afternoon with his boyfriend of six months, Clark Kent. It seems things between Wayne and Kent are starting to get serious, a surprise given Wayne’s reputation.’”

It was pretty much exactly the coverage Bruce had been hoping for. “And now that people know we’re here, they’ll be on the lookout for us,” he mused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there end up being more pictures of us from this week alone than there have been of everything else we’ve done together. This is excellent.”

“The resort won’t let paparazzi in here, will they?” Clark asked, less enthusiastic than Bruce about the prospect of their every move being documented.

“No, definitely not,” Bruce assured him. “The worst we’ll have to deal with is other guests and their cell phone cameras.”

“That’s not so bad,” Clark reasoned, looking marginally reassured.

Now fully unpacked, Bruce collected his toiletries and made for the bathroom. “I’ll shower first, if you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead,” Clark said, already absorbed in the article about them again.

Bruce undressed in front of the bathroom sink, leaving his clothes folded neatly on the counter, and stepped into the separate, enclosed area with the shower and toilet, shutting the door behind him. He turned the shower on, letting the water run as hot as he could stand. The water pressure was a little high; hotels could never seem to get that right. He stepped under the scalding stream and felt his muscles instantly relax.

He still definitely needed to visit the resort spa, but for now, this would do.

* * *

_ Clark _

The shower ran for a solid twenty minutes while Clark finished reading the article and turned his attention to some of the work he’d brought with him. He knew he had the week off, and it was a Saturday besides, but it was difficult for him to shut off the part of his brain that was and always would be a journalist, and it couldn’t hurt to do a little bit of writing on vacation. He was sure Bruce wasn’t completely disconnecting from work, either, so at least they would be workaholics together.

Clark heard when Bruce turned the water off, stepped out of the shower, opened the bathroom door. The entire room heated up marginally as the steam from Bruce’s shower escaped. Clark opened his email; it was emptier than usual, again, being a Saturday, but there were always a few messages for him to read.

Clark looked up when he heard the sound of Bruce’s footsteps change as he crossed from the tile floor in the bathroom to the carpet of the main bedroom area. He immediately regretted doing so.

Bruce was dripping wet and naked save for the flimsy white towel wrapped precariously around his waist—and hotel towels were never big enough to cover much, were they? The skin of his torso was just as pale as the rest of him, crisscrossed with scars, and, of course, in impeccable shape. Clark had thought Bruce looked good with his clothes  _ on _ ; this was so much better. This was indecent levels of attractiveness.

With a second towel, Bruce dried off his hair, leaving it sticking up in all directions. Clark wasn’t sure where to look, at the rare sight of Bruce’s untamed hair or at the muscles working in Bruce’s back as Bruce rooted through the clothes he’d brought with him, fishing out a pair of white underwear.

Without warning, Bruce dropped the towel from around his waist, and Clark, unable to tear his eyes away, was looking at him completely naked. Clark was all at once extremely grateful he was the only one of the two of them who could hear heartbeats, though Clark’s was thudding so loudly in his chest that he wouldn’t be surprised if Bruce could hear it too. He couldn’t see  _ everything _ , since Bruce was facing away from him, and Bruce quickly pulled on the underwear he’d been holding, but the image was seared in Clark’s mind forever.

As if dropping the towel hadn’t been enough, Bruce proceeded to do something even worse. He turned around. Clark forced himself to look back down at his laptop, as though he’d never looked away, but when Bruce addressed him, he used it as a convenient excuse to look up again, and good Lord, those boxer briefs left very little to the imagination.

“Your turn in the shower,” Bruce said.

A long, awkward pause before stopped dwelling on the fact that Bruce was wearing almost nothing and looking like he’d stepped out of one of the dreams Clark would  _ not _ admit to having and registered what Bruce had said. Once he realized Bruce had just given him the perfect escape from this situation, Clark snapped his laptop shut too loudly and disappeared into the bathroom.

Clark undressed, leaving his clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor, and turned the shower on cold.

Even with the cold water running down his back, it took Clark several moments to cool down. He felt ridiculous; he hadn’t gotten this worked up over something so minor since college, probably. Maybe the first time he’d seen Lois naked. But that had been an appropriate time to get worked up, because the first time Clark had seen Lois naked had also been the first time they’d had sex. The context in which Clark had just seen Bruce naked was completely different.

Clark wasn’t usually one for long showers, but this was an exception. He might have even been in there longer than Bruce. When he stepped out, he collected his dirty clothes off the floor and wrapped himself in a towel. He found Bruce reclining on the bed – Clark had known when he’d agreed to the vacation that it would mean sharing a bed, and it hadn’t felt like a problem until right this second – in white linen pants and a light button-up shirt. Bruce barely glanced up from his phone to acknowledge him. Clark hastily pulled together an outfit from his suitcase and returned to the bathroom, because he would  _ not _ be changing in front of Bruce.

He reemerged wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and this time when Bruce looked up his attention was fully on Clark. “Still interested in taking a walk around the resort?” he asked.

“Sure,” Clark said. A walk would be nice. A walk would help him take his mind off things.

Bruce led the way, back to the main building and then out another exit that led down some stairs, past an outdoor cage taller than either of them that held two large blue parrots that squawked at them curiously when they passed. It was late afternoon now, the outdoor bar full. Bruce and Clark walked in silence, Clark distracting himself by taking note of everything they passed that he wanted to do or try that week.

He wasn’t thinking about what Bruce looked like naked. He wasn’t.

Just past the bar was the pool, an enormous, sprawling, multi-tiered affair with rows of lounge chairs in the shade of beach umbrellas. After that, they passed more gift shops selling sunglasses and beach towels and floral-printed dresses, and then the path took them down the cliffside, past deep green foliage and bird chatter. There were more buildings down here, but they were just filled with guest rooms. Occasionally a family or an elderly couple would emerge wearing sun hats and carrying canvas bags, headed to the pool or the beach.

On the other side of these buildings was another outdoor bar and another pool, this one overlooking the ocean and featuring an impressive water slide and a lazy river. “This place doesn’t end,” Clark said, slightly awed.

Bruce pointed off to the left, where a short line of swimsuit-clad guests were waiting at a dock. “That’s where the boat to the island picks you up,” he explained. “And you can see the island out there.”

Clark looked, and sure enough, there was the island, a small circle of sand and palm trees a short boat ride away. He’d seen it with his enhanced vision from their room, but it looked no less idyllic from his current vantage point.

“The boat runs all day,” Bruce continued, “But I think I’ll hold off until tomorrow before I go over there myself. You’re welcome to go without me, though. I was thinking I’d check out the bar.”

“Of course you were.” Clark smirked. “The beach can wait. I’ll go to the bar with you.”

They snagged a table for two at the outdoor bar nearer to them. Clark ordered a pina colada, because it was the most vacation-appropriate drink he could think of, and Bruce ordered the least sweet cocktail on the menu, which was no small feat. While they waited on the bartender, Clark took a good look at Bruce for the first time since he’d  _ really  _ gotten a good look at Bruce after Bruce’s shower.

It was, Clark realized, the first time he’d seen Bruce wearing anything but the Batsuit, formal wear, or professional attire. He looked extremely unlike himself in his linen shirt and trousers. He looked like a man on vacation, and the fact that he hadn’t been on a vacation in some time was evident even in the way he held himself. Now that they were in this relaxed and leisurely atmosphere, Clark was noticing the tension in Bruce’s shoulders, the way he held himself like even at a five-star resort on a tropical island he was waiting for someone to sneak up behind him and attack.

Clark wondered if Bruce ever truly let his guard down.

“Now that you’ve seen the place,” Bruce said once their drinks arrived, “Or most of it, anyway, what do you think? Does it seem like a good place to spend a week off?”

“You keep asking me what I think of this place and I keep telling you it’s even better than I could have imagined,” Clark said, not annoyed but amused. “What’s the matter? Do you not like it?”

“I just want to make sure you’ll enjoy yourself here,” Bruce said, looking down at his drink. “I know you weren’t sure about the idea of taking a vacation. I want this trip to be worth your while.”

“‘Worth my while,’” Clark repeated, one eyebrow raised. “You’re the one who’s paying for it. It should be worth  _ your _ while.” He paused, knowing Bruce would be unsatisfied with that answer, and then said, “I’m going to enjoy myself, okay? Will you at least try to relax?”

“I am relaxed,” Bruce insisted, and when he looked up again, Clark put the full weight of his skepticism into his gaze. “I’m as relaxed as I can be,” Bruce amended.

Clark accepted that answer. At least Bruce was being honest. Clark knew it wasn’t in Bruce’s nature to take time off. It wasn’t in Clark’s nature, either, but although Clark felt the same obligation Bruce did to always be around in case something bad happened and he was needed, Clark could also rest somewhat easy in the knowledge that he could fly to any part of the world at a moment’s notice. Although technically Bruce could too, with Clark here to help him. “Are you worried about Gotham?” Clark asked. “I’m sure Alfred will call at the first sign of trouble, and I can have you there in minutes.”

“I know that,” Bruce said, frowning. He sounded frustrated, though more with himself than with Clark. He didn’t sound like he wanted to continue the conversation, so Clark let it go, shifting easily to another topic.

“You mentioned renting the car in case we wanted to go somewhere else on the island,” he said. “Was there anywhere in particular you were hoping to go? Anything you were hoping to do?”

“If we get sick of beaches, there’s a marina not too far from here where we could rent a boat and go sailing. Or we could drive back to San Juan and walk around the historic part of the city. Whatever you’re in the mood for.”

These both sounded like fun activities to try, and Clark said as much. They continued chatting about their plans for the week, ordered another pair of drinks, but when the server came by a third time, they both declined. Although Clark had seen Bruce drink many times, he’d never seen Bruce drunk, and he wasn’t sure he ever would. Bruce didn’t seem like the type to allow himself to be drunk around other people, again related to his inability to let his guard down.

Feeling guilty about taking up a table when they weren’t drinking, Clark suggested they make their way back up to the main resort. They walked around the parts of the resort that they hadn’t yet seen: a lush garden of tropical plants that led to more guest rooms, and beyond those, the golf course, which neither of them would be utilizing during their stay. “I know it’s a cliché for rich people to go golfing during their spare time, but once you’ve had to remain polite with Lex Luthor for eighteen holes, it loses its appeal entirely,” Bruce commented, and then Clark forced Bruce to tell him, in great detail, about the time he’d gone golfing with Lex.

By the time the sun approached the western horizon and they went to grab dinner, Clark had almost forgotten the internal meltdown he’d had after seeing Bruce come out of the shower. It wasn’t until they returned to their room, after sitting out in the courtyard and talking as the sky above them turned from sunset to twilight to dark, that it came back to him in vivid detail.

Clark changed into a soft t-shirt and sweatpants while Bruce brushed his teeth in the bathroom, then they switched places, a sequence of events Clark had carefully orchestrated so that he wouldn’t have to watch Bruce change again. When Clark emerged from the bathroom, Bruce was reclining under the covers with the book he’d started reading in the Gotham airport.

Clark hesitated before getting into bed with Bruce, not because he was, well,  _ getting into bed with Bruce  _ – although that was also part of it – but more because he felt like he was intruding. Bruce made an almost serene picture, some of the tension gone from his shoulders, the slight frown on his face one of concentration and not worry. He didn’t appear completely relaxed, but he was clearly more at ease than he had been since they’d arrived in Puerto Rico.

Maybe it was the lack of people around. Clark knew Bruce wasn’t a fan of crowds, though he tolerated them. Maybe Bruce could rest easier knowing the only person around was Clark, his trusted friend. Or maybe Clark was giving himself too much credit.

Clark finally slid under the covers with Bruce, leaving a respectable distance between them, one of the benefits of a king-sized bed. Clark didn’t toss and turn in his sleep, so he wasn’t worried about encroaching on Bruce’s personal space in the middle of the night. He didn’t snore or talk in his sleep either. Lois had told him as much when they’d been dating. (She didn’t toss and turn much either, nor did she snore, though she did sometimes mutter nonsensically about a story she was working on. Clark had found it endearing, even though it woke him up some nights.)

“This is much earlier than I typically go to bed,” Bruce said, “So I’ll probably stay up reading for at least a few more hours. I brought a reading light if you want to go to sleep earlier.”

“I’m not that tired,” Clark said honestly. He pulled out his laptop and worked quietly next to Bruce.

At around midnight, Clark told Bruce he was ready to turn in, and Bruce switched to his reading light. Clark turned onto his stomach so the light wouldn’t be in his eyes – he could sleep in just about any position – and drifted off gradually. He was aware of Bruce’s solid presence within arm’s reach, and it was strange to fall asleep with Bruce beside him, but it wasn’t strange in an unpleasant way.


	12. Chapter 12

_ Bruce _

Before Bruce even opened his eyes, he was instantly aware that he wasn’t in his room at the Manor. Emerging from the haze of sleep, it took his brain a few sluggish seconds to remember where he was: in Puerto Rico. On vacation. With Clark.

Speaking of Clark, the second thing Bruce became aware of, still before opening his eyes, was the sensation of another person’s chest rising and falling slowly to his immediate left. His  _ very _ immediate left.

Bruce’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself sprawled out in the center of the king-sized bed, one arm and one leg flung over Clark, as if to claim him. Bruce didn’t move, instead listening carefully to Clark’s breathing. Was he still asleep? He seemed to be. Bruce carefully extricated his wayward limbs and rolled over to his side of the bed, grateful Clark hadn’t woken up to Bruce spread out like a starfish on top of him.

Bruce knew he had a tendency to take up space when he slept, but it had never been a problem before. Rarely did any of his one-night stands stay the night at Wayne Manor, and even when they did, Bruce left after they fell asleep in his bed to go on patrol. If they woke at any point during the night to notice him gone, when he returned, he explained it away as insomnia or a late-night work call with someone on the other side of the world.

So Bruce had never had to spend much time actually sleeping with – in the literal and not the euphemistic sense – anyone else. He hadn’t expected to wake up entangled with another human being, with  _ Clark _ . He was vividly aware that there would be six more nights of this, and he had no guarantee that Clark wouldn’t wake up before him one morning with Bruce glued to his side. He could only hope Clark would be cool about it.

The digital clock on Bruce’s nightstand blinked nine-fourteen in blocky red numbers. It was early for Bruce to be waking up of his own accord, but he had gone to bed several hours earlier than usual that night, and he found he wasn’t tired beyond the usual grogginess that always clung to him when he woke. He pushed himself into a seated position. As soon as he did, Clark’s breathing next to him changed and Clark opened his eyes and turned to face Bruce.

“Good morning,” Clark said with a sweet smile that hit Bruce right in the chest. Seeing him like this, blinking his eyes open and emerging from a peaceful sleep, it was almost possible to forget he was the most powerful being on Earth.

“I’ll take the first shower again,” Bruce said, something in him eager to get away from the unbearable domesticity of the moment. Clark nodded and stretched and Bruce got out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

His muscles were still sore from two nights ago, but sleeping in a bed instead of on a plane had at least eased the stiffness in his neck and shoulders. He was only in his twenties, but his days of falling asleep on any old surface without consequences were already behind him.

Bruce had sensed Clark’s discomfort when he’d changed in front of him yesterday – fair enough, Clark had a more normal sense of boundaries when it came to being naked around people than Bruce did – so when Bruce got out of the shower, he walked back out in a towel, grabbed the clothes he was planning to wear that day, and changed in the bathroom. While Clark showered with the door closed between them, Bruce brushed his teeth, shaved, and styled his hair.

Unlike Clark, Bruce didn’t feel the least bit awkward or uncomfortable seeing Clark in various states of undress. He snuck a glance in the mirror as Clark passed behind him coming out of the shower. He couldn’t deny that Clark was physically stunning, but Bruce had spent a lot of time around attractive people, and seen plenty of them wearing less than a hotel towel wrapped around their waist. Much like Clark wasn’t interested in Bruce’s money or fame, Bruce could think of a whole list of things about Clark that were more impressive than his looks.

“There’s a breakfast buffet in the main building,” Bruce called out to Clark, “But it ends at ten-thirty, so if you’re interested, we should head over there soon.”

“You know how I feel about breakfast,” Clark replied. “I’m in.”

Once Clark was dressed and ready, the two of them walked to breakfast, which was held in a busy dining room off the lobby. Clark piled his plate high with the various options at his disposal; Bruce, not used to eating this early, stuck to French toast, coffee, and fruit. “What would you like to do today?” Bruce asked mid-meal.

“I’d love to check out the beach,” Clark said.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

After breakfast, they returned to their room so Bruce could grab sunglasses, sunscreen, and reading material and retraced their steps from the day before: down the cliffside to the dock, where a boat picked them and about a dozen other guests up and ferried them to the resort’s private little island.

It was still early enough that there was plenty of space left open on the beach. Bruce and Clark found two empty lounge chairs next to each other, one in the shade of a palm tree and the other in full sun. Bruce opted for the shade, but still applied plenty of sunscreen, because he and the sun were at best distant strangers and at worst mortal enemies.  


As soon as they’d claimed their spots, Clark stripped his shirt off and spread out in the sun, a contented smile on his face. Bruce envied the way Clark seemed to instantly relax. Because being alone with his thoughts had never been a relaxing experience for Bruce, he cracked open the book he’d brought, a sensational and utterly unrealistic mystery novel. It was the sort of thing he read when he needed a distraction; he could sit and pick apart the author’s many mistakes. That’s what he did for roughly the first two hours out there on the sand while Clark dozed off beside him.

At lunchtime, they walked over to the outdoor restaurant in the center of the island. A pair of roosters were bobbing along between the patrons’ feet, picking at anything anyone dropped. An entire flock of small, gray-brown birds had taken up residence at an abandoned table and were dining on the uneaten scraps left behind.

The lunch menu wasn’t expansive, but the food was good and there were drink options that weren’t fruity, too-sweet cocktails. Clark carried the conversation through most of the meal; spending so much time in another person’s company had depleted Bruce’s social energy more than he’d expected. He was going to need to take a break soon, spend some time alone and recharge.

Once they were finished eating, Bruce leaned across the table and said, “I’ve been meaning to check out the resort spa. Think you can manage on your own for a few hours?”

“Do I think I can manage relaxing on the beach?” Clark repeated, amused. “I think I’ll survive.”

They parted ways, Clark heading back to the beach and Bruce getting on the boat to the resort. As soon as Bruce was off the boat and the other riders had dispersed, heading in the direction of the bar or the pool or up the cliffside path to the main resort, he felt some of the tension inside him ease. Clark was near the top of the short list of people Bruce actually enjoyed spending time with – he certainly couldn’t have made it through a full day-and-a-half with anyone else, save for maybe Alfred – but he still felt an unexplainable relief in being alone for the first time since Clark had arrived at Wayne Manor at seven AM the previous day.

He walked to the on-site spa and booked a two-hour, full-body massage. Even though it wasn’t a solitary activity, since there would be a massage therapist in the room with him the entire time, there was a huge difference, for Bruce, between being around someone he was expected to socialize with and being around a professional who was being paid to do their job and didn’t care if Bruce didn’t say a single word to them. And there was also something to be said for being  _ forced _ to relax, on a physical level if not a mental one, to relax his muscles if not his mind.

Laying face-down on the massage table, Bruce let his mind wander. Not aimlessly; Bruce knew better than to give his mind free reign over where it might take him. It almost never took him somewhere nice. Instead, he set his mind on a certain subject, one he didn’t think would take him anywhere too grim – specifically, the subject of Clark – then sat back and let his thoughts go in any direction they wanted.

The first thought he had was a pleasant one: It seemed like Clark was enjoying himself on their vacation so far. It was only their first full day in Puerto Rico, so it was too soon for Bruce to call the trip an unmitigated success, but he was optimistic. Clark was obviously far more capable of genuine relaxation than Bruce was; the very idea of dozing off in a public place like a beach, where he was surrounded by people, was unthinkable to Bruce, but Clark had done it easily. And he’d seemed eager to get back to his task of doing nothing when Bruce had left him.

They hadn’t talked much about it, but Bruce knew Clark was stressed about his job. Who wouldn’t be, in the current economy? He’d said himself that he needed a break from work. So it was even more gratifying for Bruce to see Clark unwind. Bruce knew how it felt to be overwhelmed by a million different obligations, each as important as the last. Bruce’s adult life had been a nonstop juggling act – between the company, his charity work, and being Batman – where the smallest slip-up spelled disaster for himself and countless others. Clark’s life was no different, and he deserved a break.

Bruce was also pleased that Clark didn’t appear to mind that said vacation came with the price of spending the week with Bruce. Bruce knew Clark enjoyed his company – they were friends, after all, and they were friends because Clark had practically forced Bruce into friendship – but there was a difference between going for drinks with someone and going on a week-long island getaway together. Clark volunteering to pretend to date Bruce had put to rest any questions Bruce might have had about Clark’s devotion to Bruce, but a part of Bruce had suspected Clark might get sick of spending so much time with Bruce over the course of said fake relationship, and Bruce wouldn’t blame him for it. But Clark hadn’t gotten sick of him. He only ever seemed to want to spend  _ more _ time together.

Bruce regularly marveled at how someone like him had managed to attract a friend as loyal and enthusiastic as Clark.

The massage ended too soon for Bruce’s liking. He could have stayed there another two hours, thinking about Clark and their friendship while the expert massage therapist slowly worked the tension out of him. He eased off of the table, feeling looser and lighter than before.

The feeling didn’t last long. As soon as he turned his phone back on, a message from Clark came through, sent twelve minutes ago:  _ Another article about us just went up. Meet me in our room. _

Bruce frowned. What could someone have written about them that Clark would feel the need to talk about, privately and immediately? He turned to Google and quickly found his answer.

“Trouble in Paradise?” the headline blared in all caps, followed by “Bruce Wayne and Boyfriend Spotted Feuding in Puerto Rico.” There were multiple pictures, including one of Bruce alone on the boat to the resort, looking tense and unhappy. Bruce’s apparent unhappiness was mostly a case of his default expression being much closer to a scowl than a smile; he had to work to look happy, and in his socially depleted state earlier, he hadn’t bothered to.

There was another picture of Bruce and Clark on the beach, Bruce once again scowling at the book he was reading – he’d probably just found an egregious error in the author’s writing – while Clark sunned himself from a friendly, but not at all coupley, distance. The article went on to speculate that they were having relationship troubles, and that the trip to Puerto Rico was “a last-ditch effort to save the relationship.”

Obviously the writers of the article were reaching; nothing about the two photos suggested Bruce and Clark were “feuding,” but they did suggest a certain distance between them. It was all easily explained away – Bruce had needed some alone time, not because of anything Clark did but because it was just how Bruce was, and besides, they weren’t really in a relationship anyway, which was why they didn’t always look like it – but from an outsider’s perspective, all anyone could see was that it didn’t seem like they were enjoying their romantic getaway.

This clearly wasn’t the message they were trying to sell to the press. Clark was right; they needed to talk about this.

Bruce texted Clark a quick acknowledgement and headed for their room.

* * *

_ Clark _

“This is my fault,” was the first thing Bruce said when he arrived in their room, closing the door behind him. Clark was waiting on the L-shaped sofa, feet on the coffee table. Bruce came over to sit next to him. “I planned this vacation as a way to sell our relationship, but I let myself get distracted. I should have been more focused on the mission and not on—” He trailed off, like he wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.

“Not on what?” Clark prompted.

“On making sure you’re enjoying yourself, to be honest,” Bruce finished.

Clark was touched. “I’m grateful, but you don’t have to feel responsible for my enjoyment,” he said. “Let’s focus on why we came here.” He gestured at his laptop, where he’d pulled up the article. “This isn’t the image we’re trying to portray.”

“I agree,” Bruce said. “In the past, just being seen together was enough to spread rumors about us. But now that everyone  _ knows _ we’re together, rumors aren’t enough. We have to start making an effort to look like we’re in a successful, committed relationship.” He sighed. “That’ll probably have to include me not going off on my own like we’ve just gotten into a fight.”

“You’ll still need to take breaks occasionally,” Clark reasoned. He knew Bruce was an introvert, that extended social situations took a toll on him and that if Bruce couldn’t be on his own for the rest of the week, he’d go crazy. He was always willing to accommodate Bruce’s needs, and that didn’t have to stop now that they had to try extra hard to convince the world that they were a happy couple. “We’ll just have to make up for it the rest of the time by looking like we’re hopelessly in love with each other.”

“That’s not a bad strategy.”

With a new plan in place, they went back out into the world, deciding to sit by the pool for a few hours where they were even more likely to be seen; the pool just outside the main resort building was centrally located, easily viewable from the lobby, many of the guest rooms, the adjacent outdoor bar, and the path down to the ocean. Bruce didn’t bring his book, just a pair of sunglasses and his sunscreen, which he reapplied before leaving the room. They walked side-by-side all the way there, Bruce’s hand at Clark’s back, and when they arrived they pushed two lounge chairs next to each other and held hands between them.

It felt very much like putting on a show; Clark was hyperaware every time another guest looked at them. But it started to feel more natural when Bruce struck up a conversation, commenting idly about one of Clark’s articles – Clark hadn’t known Bruce read his work – and letting Clark talk about the subject, one he had many strong opinions about, to his heart’s content. He forgot about their closeness, about Bruce’s hand in his, even after he ran out of things to say and they lapsed into silence. It just felt natural.

Clark’s gaze wandered over to the pool in front of them. There were children and families in the shallow end, teenagers swimming around in the deep end, adults mingling along the edges.

Clark had an idea. He had become intimately familiar with the business of celebrity gossip over the past six months, knew what made headlines and generated clicks, and he felt pretty good about their chances of someone photographing them and posting it on the internet if they were both soaking wet and shirtless. He leaned closer to Bruce and said conspiratorially, “We should get in the pool.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows at the non-sequitur, but at Clark’s meaningful look, he seemed to catch on. “Now you’re thinking like a paparazzo,” he said, sitting up and taking off his shirt. Clark didn’t stare as the fabric gave way to Bruce’s scarred and sculpted torso.

He didn’t. Really.

They slipped into the pool, finding a spot along the edge that no other couples or friend groups had claimed. Trying to picture how they looked from the perspective of the guests surrounding them, particularly the ones outside the pool who might have their phones on them and might snap a picture, Clark turned to face Bruce, close enough that their legs brushed against each other as they treaded water. He leaned one arm against the edge of the pool to keep steady, arranged the other lazily over Bruce’s shoulder. He caught the corner of Bruce’s mouth twitch up as Bruce fit himself into the arrangement, also steadying himself on the edge of the pool, his free arm snaking around to wrap around Clark’s waist.

It was an undoubtedly, almost unbearably romantic position. Clark could lean forward ever so slightly and their foreheads would touch.

“Should we kiss,” Clark asked quietly, thinking he was doing a very good job of not sounding like he was being swept away by the intimacy of the moment, “Or would that be overdoing it?”

“If we were in a real relationship, would you kiss me right now?” Bruce asked, turning the question around on Clark.

Clark considered this. Would he kiss Bruce like this if they were actually dating? He wasn’t big on PDA, and he didn’t think Bruce would be either, outside of a fake relationship where PDA was necessary to convince the world they were together. But here, in the pool, their legs entwined, their hands overlapping on the pool’s edge, Clark had a hard time remembering there was anyone else around. His world had narrowed to every point on his body where Bruce was touching him, and several other points where, if he was deeply honest with himself, he would very much like for Bruce to be touching him.

It should probably have been concerning how quickly Clark came up with his answer. He closed the distance between them, just like he’d pictured doing, only instead of touching their foreheads together he brought his mouth to Bruce’s. Bruce’s lips parted beneath his, and Clark was mortified to hear himself  _ sigh _ into the kiss, the sound escaping him before he could stop it.

It wasn’t a long kiss, and by Clark’s standards it was very family-friendly – although he picked up several sounds of disapproval from the surrounding area, felt several more glares on them, the “think of the children” homophobes, the “I don’t care what two consenting adults do in the privacy of their bedroom, but god forbid two people of the same sex show affection for each other in public, where I have to bear witness to it” homophobes – but it hit Clark in a way none of their previous staged kisses had. Maybe it had something to do with the way he suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Bruce coming out of the shower the day before, and here Bruce was wearing not much more than he had then, and kissing him.

Yes, Clark had… thought about Bruce. In  _ that _ way. Fleetingly. Never in great detail, never to the point where Clark felt guilty thinking about a friend  _ like that _ .

He was thinking about it now.

It didn’t help, Clark quickly realized, that after the kiss, they both just  _ stayed  _ there, floating next to each other, still touching, Clark’s lips buzzing and his heart thrumming. All of their previous kisses had ended with them pulling away from each other, reasserting some sort of distance between them, but that wasn’t what they were doing now. A part of Clark was desperate for another kiss, a longer one, fuck what any of the people around them thought; another part of him very much wanted to get out of the pool and forget the first kiss had happened. And there he was, caught between the two conflicting desires and acting on neither.

“I think that was very convincing,” Bruce said, and it didn’t help to hear his voice right then; his voice was just another impossibly attractive thing about him, the list went on forever.

“I agree,” Clark managed, because it had almost convinced  _ him _ , and he knew they were faking it, so it fucking better have convinced everyone else.

That night, after hours in and by the pool, after dinner and after-dinner drinks, none of which managed to erase the vivid memory of their kiss in the pool, they returned to their room. They both showered again to wash off the sand and chlorine of the day. Clark brushed his teeth for a good four or five minutes, drawing out the already unnecessary task to forestall the inevitable.

He would never tell Bruce, but Clark had woken up early that morning, earlier than Bruce. He didn’t know the exact time, he hadn’t wanted to move to check his phone or the clock on the nightstand because Bruce had been draped over him, one arm over Clark’s chest, one leg over Clark’s legs. It had been innocent enough at the time, even after the debacle with Bruce coming out of the shower, but Clark didn’t think he could bear it tonight, not after being similarly entangled with Bruce in the pool.

But what else was Clark to do? Sleep on the couch? Not sleep at all? Then Bruce would know something was wrong, which would force Clark to admit, not just to Bruce but to himself, that something  _ was _ wrong. And Clark didn’t want to think too hard about what it was, exactly, that he was feeling, that he shouldn’t be feeling.

Easier to convince himself that he was just horny. Easier to say it was the part of him that he had repressed for so long finally emerging, his attraction to men striking him full-force now that he’d allowed himself to entertain it. Clark hadn’t been physically intimate with a man in any way since college, and being with Bruce, even when they were just pretending, was awakening a desperate part of him that Clark had locked away.

“Anything go up online about us?” Clark asked, reaching out for conversation as a way to ground himself back in reality. He was getting swept away by this fake relationship; it was easy to live in a fantasy in an exotic, faraway location, where things didn’t feel quite as real as they did back home. That was his problem. That was why he was feeling like this.

“Nothing I’ve seen,” Bruce answered from bed.

Clark frowned and joined him. So their efforts that afternoon had been for naught. Which meant they’d have to keep trying tomorrow. Not that they still wouldn’t have to keep up the charade whether any pictures of them in the pool made their way to the internet or not, but the pressure was on until they recemented their image as a happy couple. They’d have to continue laying it on thick, and Clark wasn’t sure how much more of that he could take.

“Tomorrow I was thinking we could check out the bioluminescent bay I mentioned,” Bruce suggested. “There are kayaking tours out there every night.”

“Definitely,” Clark agreed. It sounded like a fun activity, and he knew from Googling that Puerto Rico’s bioluminescent bays were considered a “must see” on any trip to the island.

“I’ll book us a tour, then.” Bruce turned back to the book he’d been reading; he was almost finished with it now. Clark started scrolling through work emails on his phone, answering the ones that didn’t require too much detailed input from him.

Once it was suitably late enough, Clark asked Bruce to turn the light off and pulled the covers up, turned away from Bruce. His thoughts raced faster than they had all day; he chased after sleep but never caught it. He stayed awake long enough for Bruce to finish the book, turn off his reading light, and settle in for a good night’s sleep. He stayed awake to feel Bruce shift from position to position, trying to find one he was comfortable in. He listened as Bruce’s breathing slow and stayed awake so long that Bruce unconsciously settled in beside him, not quite spooning but not quite not.

Clark sighed. The vacation that had seemed like the relaxing getaway he’d needed was becoming something much more complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce: I know Clark would literally do anything for me but does he _like_ me?
> 
> Also, Bruce: Clark and I are such good friends :)  
> Clark, having a crisis: Is this friendship? Is this what friendship feels like? This doesn’t feel like friendship.


	13. Chapter 13

_ Bruce _

Bruce and Clark’s second full day in Puerto Rico passed much as the previous day had. Bruce woke up practically spooning Clark, rolled away before Clark woke up and acted all morning like nothing had happened. They ate breakfast, went to the beach; Bruce caught up on work emails while Clark made fun of him for being a workaholic, the irony that Clark was just as bad as Bruce not lost on either of them.

All the while, they were careful to always appear physically close, holding hands or draping their arms around each other, sharing occasional staged kisses when the moment seemed right. When Bruce felt the need for some alone time after lunch again, they walked back to the room together so no one would see them apart; Bruce sat in bed with his laptop and the news on in the background while Clark sat on the balcony and continued soaking up the sun.

That night, after dark, they walked down the road to where their kayaking tour was scheduled to begin, at the mouth of an inlet off the sea. The sky was clear, stars blinking to life one by one above their heads, more stars than Bruce could ever see in Gotham.

The tour guides passed out life jackets and bottles of bug spray. The life jackets were mandatory; the bug spray was strongly encouraged. They broke off into pairs set off in kayaks across the dark, still water in a single-file line. The only light was the light of the moon and the distant lights of the resort.

Their path took them into the inlet, a thin strip of water connecting the ocean to the bioluminescent bay. A forest of mangrove trees growing on either side of the water formed a canopy overhead, blocking out the moonlight and plunging the tour into near-total blackness. Bruce wondered how it all looked to Clark, with his night vision.

The silence of the tour group was interrupted only by the occasional murmuring of kayakers, the rhythmic drag of paddles through the water, and the background noise of frogs and insects. It was the most relaxed Bruce had been all trip, including the time he took to himself each day to recharge. Bruce was used to darkness; he found it peaceful rather than unsettling. And it took the pressure off of him and Clark. No one was looking at them, no one was taking pictures of them. They didn’t have to pretend. They could just enjoy each other’s company, in silence.

It was impossible to tell how much time passed before they entered the bay. As they drew closer, each stroke of their paddles stirred up a flurry of bioluminescence, a swirling blue glow of microorganisms.

In the bay itself, the tour guides instructed everyone in the group to bring their kayaks alongside each other, forming a tight cluster. Every movement that disturbed the water resulted in that same blue glow, slightly brighter here than it had been in the channel. The tour guides stretched large tarps over everyone’s heads, blocking the light from the moon and stars so the glow was even brighter. The few participants who’d brought waterproof cameras – they were encouraged to leave their cell phones behind so they wouldn’t end up in the water – snapped pictures, though Bruce was skeptical how well the phenomenon would show up in a photograph. It was the sort of thing best viewed in person.

Once everyone had seen their fill of the bioluminescence, the tour group turned back to the channel and went back the way they’d come. It was even quieter this time; everyone had gotten the hang of rowing and was no longer murmuring instructions to each other or coordinating their movements. The frogs and insects sounded louder in the ringing silence.

Neither Bruce or Clark spoke until they were back at the resort. Bruce noticed his neck and arms were starting to itch. He frowned. He’d listened to the tour guides and covered himself in bug spray. Had it not been enough?

“I’m glad we did that,” Clark said. He was leading the way to their room; by this point they both knew the way. “That was really cool.”

Clark unlocked the door to their room and held the door open. He winced when he saw Bruce. “Are you okay? You look like you got eaten alive out there.”

That explained the itching. Bruce sighed and shouldered past Clark to enter the room, flicked on the bathroom light and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

He did, indeed, look like he’d gotten eaten alive. Not only were his shoulders and face pinkish-red from two straight days of sun, but there were raised pink spots all over his neck, arms, and legs; anywhere that had been exposed while kayaking.

“Fuck,” he said eloquently. Clark closed the door and came to stand behind Bruce. He looked caught between humor and pity.

“Let me go downstairs and get you something,” Clark said. “I’m sure the convenience shop has something for bug bites.”

“If you could get some hydrocortisone lotion, that would be great,” Bruce said, overcome with a grim acceptance that, lotion or not, his whole body was going to be itching for at least the next several days. “While you’re gone, I’m going to take a shower.”

The hot shower was a mild source of relief, but Bruce was grateful when Clark returned from the in-resort convenience shop with a tube of Cortizone. Bruce had already changed into his pajamas; he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and meticulously covered every mosquito bite, counting twenty-two in total.

“I’m so sorry,” Clark said, watching Bruce work.

“I can tell you’re trying really hard not to find this funny,” Bruce observed. He wasn’t upset about it. He was sure it would be funny to him, too, in hindsight. For now, it was just annoying.

“I feel bad. Maybe the mosquitoes went after you twice as much as they otherwise would have because they couldn’t go after me.”

“So I have you to blame for this?” Bruce shot Clark a small smile in the mirror so Clark knew Bruce wasn’t  _ really _ blaming him for anything. “You don’t have to hover over me while I do this. You can take a shower. I’ll be fine out here.”

Clark reluctantly disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door between them. The water turned on minutes later. Clark showered quickly, and Bruce had just finished getting ready for bed when he emerged.

Though seeing Clark fresh out of the shower the first time hadn’t been the revelatory experience it might have been if Bruce weren’t so used to being with attractive people in various states of undress, he did appreciate the sight every time. Clark wasn’t just attractive; because of his Kryptonian biology, he was visibly flawless. Perfectly straight, white teeth and blemish-free skin. It was stark in comparison to the map of scars Bruce had across his body. This wasn’t a source of insecurity for Bruce – Bruce was very realistic about his attractiveness, and though it might sound vain, he knew he didn’t have any reason to be insecure about his looks – but it did make Bruce wonder what Clark thought when he saw Bruce’s scars. Which in turn made Bruce wonder what Clark thought when he saw Bruce in general.

He knew Clark thought he was attractive – Clark had said as much, in the past – but was Clark attracted  _ to  _ him? There was a difference between passively finding someone objectively, aesthetically appealing, the way one might look at a statue or a painting or a bouquet of flowers, and finding someone attractive in a real, physical way. Which way did Clark feel about him?

Bruce caught himself as soon as the question crossed his mind; what was the point of even wondering? What did it matter? Clark was his friend, nothing more. As long as Clark could convincingly fake the latter kind of attraction for the press, it shouldn’t be an issue.

Maybe it mattered because Bruce already knew which way he felt about Clark. Bruce didn’t find Clark attractive like a flower or a painting. He found Clark attractive like he’d found all the other men (and women) he’d slept with attractive. If Clark was just someone Bruce had met at a bar, and not one of Bruce’s closest and only friends, Bruce would have spent the whole night trying to figure out if Clark was interested so he could get Clark into his car and then into his bed.

In many ways, the fake relationship only made it worse. Bruce thought back to the first two times he’d kissed Clark, in Bruce’s study at Wayne Manor, and how afterward he’d felt too-warm and a little bit dizzy, his body screaming at him the way it had every time they’d kissed since. Bruce wasn’t used to stopping things just when they were getting interesting. Making out almost always led to something more. And it had been more than six months since he’d been with anyone in that way. It was getting easier and easier for the signals to cross.

He’d started being more careful around Clark, keeping their kisses short, their public interactions more sweet and romantic than sensual. It worked well enough; Bruce hadn’t gotten any embarrassing public hard-ons and he counted that as a win.

Bruce got into bed with Clark, acutely aware that this was the worst possible place to be having these thoughts. He got out the next book he’d brought on the trip, the sequel to the book he’d finished the night before, another terribly cliché mystery. He hoped it would take his mind off things.

“How do you feel?” Clark asked, frowning at Bruce’s many mosquito bites.

“I’ll live,” Bruce said frankly. “It’s far from the worst thing that’s happened to me.”

“That’s not a high bar,” Clark retorted.

“The lotion helps. There’s nothing else I can do about it.” Bruce paused and, not wanting Clark to feel bad for him, added, “It was still a good night.”

“It was,” Clark agreed. Satisfied that Bruce wasn’t suffering too much, Clark settled into bed. It was late, and it didn’t take long for Clark to doze off after Bruce switched to his reading light. About an hour later, Bruce turned in as well.

He woke up when the sky was bright, a slat of sunlight escaping through the crack in the curtains and leaving a gold stripe across their bed. To Bruce’s dismay, he was tangled up with Clark again, in perhaps their most compromising position yet. Clark’s shirt had hiked up and Bruce had an arm wrapped around his bare stomach, hand resting casually just above the elastic waistband of his pants. One of Bruce’s legs was slotted between both of Clark’s, and Bruce was literally breathing down Clark’s neck.

Bruce didn’t think he could maneuver himself out of this one without waking up Clark. He started by withdrawing his arm, then slowly extricated his leg. He held his breath as he rolled away, silently celebrating his success, when he realized.

Clark’s breathing wasn’t as slow and even as it was when Clark was asleep. It hadn’t been since Bruce had woken up, and the whole time he’d been separating himself from Clark.

Clark had been pretending to be asleep. Bruce could only guess that Clark was trying to spare him the embarrassment of having to acknowledge or even, God forbid, have a conversation about this. Bruce was grateful for the consideration, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether this was the first time this was happening, or if perhaps Clark had woken up before Bruce every morning and pretended to still be asleep until after Bruce put some distance between them.

It made sense. Of the two of them, Clark was the early riser.

Bruce wasn’t sure how to feel about this. Should he call Clark out on it? But then Bruce would have to verbally acknowledge the way he’d been subconsciously wrapping himself around Clark every night.

But what if Clark was uncomfortable and not speaking up about it because he was worried about making things awkward? Bruce’s number one goal throughout the fake relationship had been to avoid doing anything that made Clark uncomfortable. The idea that he’d done so accidentally, in his sleep, was a problem.

Decision made, Bruce sighed and opened his eyes. “Have you been pretending to be asleep every morning we’ve been here?”

Clark turned to face Bruce. Despite his slight bedhead, he looked like he’d been awake for a while. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” he said. “Because it’s really not. I know you’re not doing it consciously.”

“I could call the front desk and have them bring us some extra pillows,” Bruce suggested. “We could line them up between us as a barrier. It might work.”

“There’s no need to do that,” Clark said. “Unless it would make you more comfortable. I’m fine either way.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

“And you’ll tell me if you change your mind?”

“I promise.”

* * *

_ Clark _

Clark didn’t know why he’d refused Bruce’s offer to put some distance between them at night. Waking up that morning with Bruce draped over him, skin-to-skin, had been awkward, but it had also been… nice. Clark hadn’t been close like that with another person in a long time. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed that comfortable, casual intimacy. And he knew it wasn’t real, and he knew it wouldn’t last, but it felt good to linger in that delusion, the pleasant warmth of Bruce’s arms.

Clark made a mental note to start trying to meet people again and go on dates as soon as this fake relationship was over. Clearly he’d crossed the barrier from “single and happy about it” to “extremely lonely and desperate for companionship” without realizing it if he was totally okay with letting his closest friend spoon him all night.

The rest of the trip passed largely without incident, though Clark’s low level of anxiety around the way Bruce made him feel didn’t go away. They continued to act enamored with each other in public, and every kiss they shared stirred a pleasant, buzzing warmth inside Clark. The way they seemed to always be touching started to feel less contrived and more natural. And every morning Clark woke up to Bruce on top of or around him in some way, shape, or form.

Other than that, it was a fun, relaxing vacation. Clark spent plenty of time on the beach and by the pool, and though Bruce was looking very pink by the end of the week and still covered in fading mosquito bites, he seemed to enjoy himself too. They went to San Juan on Thursday and spent the day walking around and exploring the city. They did a reasonable amount of drinking and ate some good food. Bruce got at least an hour of alone time every day, which Clark usually used to keep in touch with his colleagues and make sure everything was running smoothly at the  _ Daily Planet _ without him.

On Saturday morning, Clark awoke in a different position. Usually Clark hardly moved from the position he’d fallen asleep in – either on his back or on his side facing away from Bruce – but it seemed that in his sleep he’d finally given in to Bruce’s unconscious efforts to cuddle. The pair of them were facing each other, foreheads nearly touching, legs tangled. Clark opened his eyes to Bruce’s face  _ right there _ , and the first thought that popped into Clark’s mind was how, if they were in a real relationship, Clark could wake Bruce up with a kiss, and Bruce would open those bright blue eyes and look at him like—

Clark turned away. He had to stop thinking like this. He got out of bed and went to take a shower while Bruce slept in.

Their flight took off at noon, which gave them just enough time to have breakfast at the buffet one more time before they had to leave for the airport. Bruce wasn’t overly talkative, which Clark understood. Bruce was used to more than just one hour to himself every day, and he was probably ready to get back to Gotham and relieve himself of the pressure of being in anyone else’s company.

They each read their respective books on the plane ride to Gotham, sitting in their comfortable first-class seats. Clark took the window seat, watched the Gulf of Mexico give way to the continental United States. The flight was uneventful, and after they landed in the Gotham airport and collected their bags at baggage claim, Alfred was waiting for them outside.

“Welcome home,” Alfred said with a smile as they loaded their luggage into the back of one of Bruce’s cars. “How was the flight?”

“It was fine,” Bruce said neutrally, climbing into the front passenger seat. “Was it alright for you, Clark?”

“No screaming babies or little kids sitting behind me and kicking my seat,” Clark said, “And no turbulence, so altogether not too bad. Not as easy as flying myself, but the company was better.”

“He’s lying,” Bruce told Alfred with a smirk. “I was terrible company. I don’t think I said a word the entire flight.”

“Run out of things to talk about after just one week together, did we?” Alfred asked.

“No one likes talking on airplanes,” Clark cut in, defending Bruce. “It’s disruptive to everyone else who’s trying to sleep or watch the in-flight movie.”

“What about the rest of the vacation?” Alfred asked, pulling out onto the highway. He glanced over at Bruce. “I can see one of you got plenty of sun.”

“We both did,” Clark said. “Bruce also got attacked by an entire swarm of mosquitoes when we went kayaking. But aside from that, it was very relaxing. I don’t think I realized just how much I needed a break until we got there.”

“It was also good for our public image,” Bruce added. “I don’t know if you saw the article that went up while we were in the air, Clark.”

“I didn’t. What does it say?”

“Just generic observations about how we seem to have enjoyed ourselves in Puerto Rico and how ‘sources say’ the trip was a good ‘bonding experience’ for both of us, despite the ‘fight’ we allegedly got into on the first day.” Bruce frowned at his smartphone. “I don’t know what ‘sources’ they possibly could have talked to, unless you’ve been talking to the press, Alfred.”

“You know very well how I feel about the press, Master Bruce,” Alfred replied, and the contempt in his voice was obvious. He then quickly added, in a much kinder voice, “Not you, of course, Master Clark. What you do at the  _ Daily Planet _ is real journalism. It’s nothing like what these people do for a living.”

“I completely agree,” Clark said. “You have to admit, though, if you know how to manipulate them like Bruce does, they can be useful.”

Clark pulled out his phone and scrolled through the work emails he’d missed during the flight. There weren’t many, it being a Saturday, but one from an email address he didn’t recognize caught his eye: “Interview Request,” the subject line read.

“Bruce,” Clark said, “I’ve just gotten an email from Gail Castro. The  _ Gazette _ reporter who interviewed you? She wants to do a follow-up interviewing me.”

“Do you want to do it?” Bruce asked.

Clark thought about that. “If I’m going to give an interview, which I probably should—”

“You don’t have to, though,” Bruce interrupted.

Clark glared at the back of Bruce’s head. “We’ve been over this. I know I don’t  _ have  _ to. But it would be a good idea, right? We want the coverage.”

“If it’s with the right publication, yes, it would be a good idea.”

“And we’ve already agreed the  _ Gazette _ is a reputable publication that we trust to handle the issue respectfully. How was your experience with Gail? Was she a good interviewer?”

“Sure,” Bruce said. “She was friendly and didn’t take up too much of my time. Her questions were mostly open-ended and she didn’t try to paint me into a corner. I’d say she did a fine job.”

“So I should say yes,” Clark concluded.

“You should do whatever you want to do.”

Clark hit reply. “Your offer to be my interview coach still stands, right?”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “You can come over after work one day this week and I’ll talk you through the basics.”

They arrived at Wayne Manor and said their goodbyes and then Clark took off for Metropolis. He entered his apartment and felt a rush of post-vacation relief. It was good to take a break every now and then, but after a whole week away, it felt just as good to be home.

He shot off a text to Lois:  _ Just got back to my apartment. _

Seconds later, Clark’s phone buzzed with an incoming call. He picked up. “That was fast,” he said with a smile.

“Tell me everything,” Lois demanded. “How was Puerto Rico? Do I need to go there someday?”

“I don’t know how it compares to all the places you’ve been,” Clark said. Putting aside Clark flying around the world to save the day, which didn’t allow for a ton of sightseeing, Lois was by far the more well-traveled of the two, not to mention she’d moved around a lot growing up with her father in the military. “But it was nice. Really beautiful.”

“What did you do? Just sit on the beach all week?” When Lois traveled, she didn’t go to the beach. She went to museums and historical landmarks and immersed herself in the local culture. She went places to  _ do _ things and  _ see  _ things, not to relax. Her one exception was her and Clark’s annual beach weekend, but driving an hour southeast to Rehoboth for two days of sand and sun hardly compared to her extended treks around the world, or even to her work trips to war zones and authoritarian countries and any other dangerous place she’d set her sights on.

“We also kayaked to this bioluminescent bay and explored San Juan a little,” Clark said. “But it was mostly sitting on a beach.”

“Boring. At least the company was good, right? You and Bruce enjoyed your time together?”

“We did. I always like spending time with Bruce.”

“It wasn’t awkward, having to pretend to be into each other the whole time?”

“It was a little awkward,” Clark confessed, “But I’m getting used to it.” That wasn’t completely true. Yes, it was getting less awkward to feign attraction to and intimacy with Bruce, but Clark wasn’t sure “getting used to it” was the best way to describe what was happening to him. He didn’t know  _ what _ the best way to describe it would be. He didn’t really want to think about it.

“I know I’ve said this before, but you deserve an award for all this,” Lois said. “For consistently going above and beyond as a friend. I don’t know how you do it. Seriously, no one else would do this for a guy they’ve only known a few years.”

“It hasn’t been that difficult,” Clark said. Which was the truth. Putting aside the fact that Bruce was so much more than “a guy Clark had only known for a few years” – they’d fought side-by-side, saved each other’s lives more times than Clark could count, but of course Lois couldn’t know that – from a practical standpoint, pretending to date Bruce had been much easier than Clark had anticipated. Convincing the rest of the world hasn’t been a problem. Even coming out as bisexual had gone well. People said shitty, homophobic things about him online, but people also said nice and supportive things.

The only problem was Clark’s weird feelings about Bruce. He’d been attracted to Bruce as long as he’d known him; that wasn’t the issue. It was the way Bruce made him feel when they spent time together in public, pretending to be together. It was the way Clark’s body reacted when they kissed. Finding someone physically attractive was one thing. But thinking about them constantly, even when they weren’t around? Wanting to be near them all the time, wanting to hear their voice and feel their presence close by?

It reminded Clark of the way he’d felt about Lois when he’d first started working at the  _ Daily Planet _ . Shortly after they’d met, after he’d gotten to know her well enough to know how truly impressive she was, stubborn and intelligent and beautiful, he’d developed a strong attraction to her that he’d tried to ignore for months. He was new to the job, and he didn’t want to jeopardize his employment at such a respected publication by getting romantically involved with a coworker, and besides, he didn’t know if she felt the same way. It took Lois not-so-subtly hinting that there weren’t any rules in their office against coworkers dating as long as neither of them was the other’s direct supervisor and, by the way, she was free after work on Friday for Clark to finally get it together and ask her out.

The fact that Clark now felt similarly for Bruce was concerning, to say the least. Clark kept telling himself it was all a normal reaction to spending so much time together and being publicly intimate.

He told himself this, but the fact that he hadn’t told Lois anything about these feelings was the biggest indicator that he was lying to himself. Because she wouldn't hesitate to call Clark out on his bullshit. He remembered what Lois had told him when he’d first pitched his fake relationship plan to her: “The only thing I could think of that would make this a really bad plan is if you had any kind of feelings for Bruce.”

“Hello?” Lois’ voice over the phone brought Clark back to the present moment. “Did I lose you?”

Clark snapped himself out of it. These thoughts he was having weren’t leading him anywhere he particularly wanted to go. He needed to stop dwelling on it. “I’m here, sorry, what did you say?”

“I said, speaking of really good friends, when do I get to see mine after he’s been away for a whole week?” Lois repeated. “I have a bottle of wine and it would be depressing for me to drink it all by myself.”

“I’m free now,” Clark said. He was both looking forward to spending time with Lois and desperately searching for any excuse not to be alone with his thoughts. “Want me to come over?”

“Yes,” Lois said. “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The kayaking is another part of this story based on my own experiences. Including the part where Bruce gets eaten alive by mosquitoes. 10/10 blood-sucking insects agree my blood is delicious.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is your regular reminder that I love comments and you should leave one if you feel so inclined.

_ Bruce _

Bruce was relieved to return to his busy life in Gotham after his and Clark’s vacation. As much as he trusted Alfred to let him know if anything terrible happened in Gotham while he was away, and as much as he trusted Clark to fly him back if he was needed at a moment’s notice, the irrational thought that everything would fall apart in his absence had never left his mind, scratching at the door to his thoughts like a cat that wanted to be fed. Now that he was back in Gotham, he felt like he had things under control, and even if that control was an illusion, it was better than feeling out of control.

He left for patrol early on Saturday night, making up for lost time, and came home close to dawn, exhausted beyond words. It was a good kind of exhaustion, or at least a kind of exhaustion he was used to and had come to associate with being in Gotham, where he should be. It felt right.

When he woke late Sunday afternoon, that sense of rightness was gone. His king-sized bed felt empty. As usual, he’d spread out across the mattress during the night, but his limbs were reaching out to nothing, to empty space.

After a week of sleeping next to Clark, it felt wrong to wake up alone.

Alfred was in the kitchen with a freshly brewed pot of coffee when Bruce finally made his way downstairs. He took a mug gratefully.

“Anything to eat this morning?” Alfred asked.

“I’ll just pour myself some cereal,” Bruce replied. He wasn’t that hungry.

“If you’re certain,” Alfred said. “It wouldn’t be any trouble for me to make you something. I’ve been alone with nothing to do around here for a week. No one to cook for but myself.”

Ever since Bruce was a child, Alfred had acted like an overbearing grandmother when it came to getting Bruce to eat, pushing food at him even when he insisted he wasn’t hungry. It would be more annoying if Bruce didn’t know that this, like many of Alfred’s other habits, was a holdover from those first few months after Bruce’s parents’ deaths when Bruce would go days without eating or doing much of anything to take care of himself. If Alfred worried, it was because he felt like there was a reason to worry.

Thoughts of how Alfred had, in a very real way, kept Bruce alive during that difficult time never failed to remind Bruce how good he had it, to have someone like Alfred in his life. Which prompted him to say, “Speaking of which, I think I forgot to thank you for keeping an eye on things while I was gone. I know you probably would have enjoyed yourself a lot more if you could have gone on a vacation of your own.”

Alfred didn’t go on vacation often. He went once a year to England and that was it. Once Bruce became an adult and no longer needed Alfred to look after him, he started encouraging Alfred to take more breaks, but Alfred was insistent.

It was easy to tell where Bruce had gotten his workaholic streak from.

“It was no trouble,” Alfred said. “As I’m sure you saw last night, Gotham managed to stay in one piece even in your absence. And it was like a vacation, of sorts. A… oh, what do they call it? A ‘staycation.’”

“Still,” Bruce persisted, “I want you to know I’m grateful.”

Alfred gave Bruce a genuine smile and refilled his coffee.

Clark came over on Tuesday after work to practice for his interview, which he and the  _ Gotham Gazette _ reporter had scheduled for the following day. They sat together in Bruce’s study, Bruce stubbornly refusing to think about how they’d shared their first two kisses in that very room. Alfred brought them drinks and then disappeared for the rest of the evening, leaving Bruce and Clark to their own devices.

“Why don’t we start with what you already know,” Bruce began. “You’ve interviewed people before. And you’ve given interviews as Superman. So you have some experience.”

“Most of my Superman interviews were me interviewing myself,” Clark reminded him, “So I’m not sure they count. But yes, I do at least know what reporters expect from an interview. Get straight to the point, be as quotable as possible, speak clearly, avoid filler words, don’t give too much unnecessary detail. The basics.”

“There’s not too much more to it than that,” Bruce said. “The one thing I would add, one of the first things I learned about giving interviews – and this is especially true for print interviews like the one you’re about to give – is not to answer right away. In everyday conversation, pausing too long before answering a question feels awkward. Most people’s first instinct is to answer with the first thing that comes to their mind. But in an interview, where your every word is being recorded, it’s better to be awkward than to give an answer you regret. Take a few seconds to think through what you’re about to say before you say it.”

Clark nodded. “That makes sense.”

“In addition to that,” Bruce continued, “Because you’re giving an interview about something I’ve already spoken on record about, it’s important to make sure your answers match mine. We’re sticking to a simple and mostly true story. We met through you covering events in Gotham for the  _ Daily Planet _ , became friends, and admitted our feelings to each other after I publicly came out as bisexual and you privately came out to me. We’ve been exclusive the entire time. We kept our relationship a secret for as long as we could because I didn’t want to subject you to the public scrutiny you’d receive for being my boyfriend.”

“Easy enough to remember.”

“Finally, and I’m sure you already knew this, but one of the most useful things you can do to prepare for an interview is to anticipate what questions you’ll be asked and practice answering them.” Once again, Bruce didn’t allow himself to linger on thoughts of the last thing they’d “practiced” in this room.

“Let’s do it,” Clark said.

Bruce settled back in his chair, ready with the first practice question. “So tell me, Clark, how did you and Bruce Wayne meet?”

They went through each of the questions Bruce had prepared, everything from “What do you like about Bruce?” to “What do you say to the accusations that you’re only interested in Bruce for his money?” Clark’s answers were already pretty good, but they went through each of them a few times fine-tuning them.

There was one question Bruce saved for the end, something he didn’t think the reporter would ask Clark but that he’d been wondering ever since Clark brought it up. “Final question,” he said, leaning forward again, no longer pretending to be a reporter, “What’s the most interesting thing about me?”

Clark looked at him for a moment, confused, before he remembered the conversation they’d had over breakfast months ago and laughed. “I can’t believe you remembered that,” he said. “I guess you’ve waited long enough to hear my answer. I know I said you’ll have to wait for my interview, but I actually don’t think I should say this on record. It doesn’t make as much sense without knowing our whole history.”

Clark paused, the laughter in his eyes shifting to heartfelt sincerity. “The most interesting thing about you, to me, is that I know you don’t let many people into your life, and yet for some reason – and I don’t think I’ll ever wrap my head around why – you’ve chosen me as one of those people.” He smiled in a way that hit Bruce in his chest like an arrow to the heart. “I’m honored.”

For a long moment, Bruce didn’t know what to say. Everything Clark had said was true. Bruce didn’t let many people into his life, and Clark was one of them. And there were so many reasons for that. Because he trusted Clark; with his life, with his secrets, with the small amount of emotional vulnerability Bruce had managed to show him over the course of their friendship. And because he liked Clark. Bruce had very few friends, very few people whose company he preferred over being alone. Including Clark.

“You deserve it,” was all Bruce said, the rest of his words trapped in his throat. He was so used to feeling so much and saying so little that, when he actually wanted to admit to having feelings, he didn’t know how.

He changed the subject quickly. “You’re a natural at this,” he said. “Giving interviews. Of the two of us, you should have been the famous one.”

“I am sort of famous, if you count being Superman,” Clark said, following Bruce’s lead away from an emotionally fraught subject to a more neutral one. He knew when to put the pressure on Bruce to be more open and when to lay off and let Bruce take things at his own pace. It was yet another thing Bruce appreciated about him. “But I’m going to have to disagree with you otherwise. I’d be a terrible full-time celebrity. You’re much better at it.”

“That’s only because I have years of practice,” Bruce pointed out. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not as naturally friendly as you are.”

“That’s different,” Clark argued. “I got to know you as Batman first. Batman isn’t supposed to be friendly. As Bruce Wayne, I think you do a great job of seeming…” Clark paused. “Friendly isn’t the right word. Charismatic. Impressive. Larger-than-life.”

“Like I said, years of practice.” Bruce wasn’t naturally charismatic. He was good at putting on an act, because he had to be, and because years of living with depression had taught him how to put on a face for the rest of the world that didn’t accurately reflect how he felt inside. But none of it came naturally. All of it was forced, and took effort, and left him exhausted at the end of each day in a way that a long night of fighting criminals on the streets of Gotham couldn’t compare to.

Somehow they’d navigated right back into emotionally fraught territory, and Bruce had to reroute the conversation  _ again _ . “Do you want to go over any of your answers one more time, or do you feel ready?”

“I think I’m ready,” Clark said. “Thanks for the help.”

“It’s the least I can do. You wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for me.”

Clark shot Bruce a now-familiar look, a look that said,  _ Stop acting like you forced me into this fake relationship when it was my idea in the first place. _ “I  _ volunteered _ to be in this situation,” he said. “If you don’t stop turning me into some sort of martyr I’m going to say something really embarrassing about you to the press.”

Bruce could tell Clark was joking, so he decided to play along. Compared to conversations that made him dwell on his  _ feelings _ , this sort of banter with Clark was comfortable and easy. “What would you say?”

Clark looked at Bruce for a moment, thinking, then said, “I’d tell them you’re bad in bed.”

“You can’t say that. Too many people would contradict you. I have a thorough track record.”

“You’re right.” Clark thought about it some more and shook his head. “I’d think of something.”

Bruce laughed. It had been a long time since someone had made him laugh.

* * *

_ Clark _

Clark had scheduled his interview with Gail during his lunch break on Wednesday. They were doing it over the phone, so he found a quiet place in the lobby of his office building and waited for Gail’s call, which came at twelve o’clock sharp.

“Thanks for taking the time to do this, Clark,” Gail said when he picked up. “Can I call you Clark?”

“Sure,” Clark replied. “Thanks for working around my schedule.”

“Of course. I’m sure you’re very busy. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Should we get right into it?”

“Go ahead.”

“Great. I’m recording starting… now.” Gail’s tone shifted slightly, from more casual and conversational to the professional voice of a reporter. “Our readers will already be familiar with you and Bruce’s story if they read his interview, but for those who didn’t, and to get your perspective, why don’t you start by telling me how the two of you got together?”

“Bruce and I met through work,” Clark said, reciting the halfway-true story he and Bruce had agreed upon. “My work, specifically. We kept running into each other when I was covering events in Gotham for the  _ Daily Planet _ . I’m an investigative reporter, but in my earlier years I did a little bit of everything. Over time, we became friends. I hadn’t known he was bisexual until he came out publicly, and he didn’t know I was either. That was what prompted us to admit our feelings to each other.”

“How long have you known you were bisexual?” Gail asked.

This time, Clark could be completely honest with his response. “I didn’t learn the word for it until college – I grew up in a small town in the Midwest so I wasn’t really exposed to the LGBT community – but in high school I had crushes on girls and boys. I figured I’d grow out of it, until I learned more about sexual orientation and that it’s not something you choose or grow out of. I came out to my parents when I was still in college, and they were both very accepting. But I wasn’t out in a more general sense until the news of my relationship with Bruce went public.”

“What was your response to the photos and videos of you and Bruce making the news?”

“I knew the risks when Bruce and I started dating,” Clark said, still keeping as close to the truth as he could. “He’s a public figure. I knew we couldn’t keep our relationship a secret forever. I wish people wouldn’t say bigoted things about us online, but I expected that too.”

“Has the public nature of your relationship with Bruce made things more difficult?”

“It’s not as bad as I thought it was going to be. That might be because there isn’t as much of a paparazzi presence in Gotham as there is in places like New York or LA. You don’t have professionals following you around with cameras, just regular people taking pictures of you with their cell phones. It’s less obtrusive. It’s still been an adjustment, though. When I’m with Bruce, I don’t blend into the background the way I’m used to. I think people underestimate the amount of privacy people give up when they gain any amount of fame. I’m only barely noteworthy, and only have been for the past six months while Bruce and I have been dating; I can’t imagine what it’s like for people who are actually famous. I don’t know how Bruce does it.”

“How have the people in your life reacted to your relationship with Bruce?”

“My friends and family don’t care who I’m with, as long as I’m happy.” Clark was pretty sure this was true. Because his parents and Lois all knew his relationship with Bruce was fake, he didn’t know how they would react if he and Bruce were really dating, but he assumed they would be as supportive as they always were.

Gail paused, and Clark sensed the shift in their conversation before it arrived. “How would you respond to the rumors that you’re only interested in Bruce for his money?” she asked.

Gail’s tone was neutral, not accusatory. She hadn’t lost an ounce of her professionalism. For that reason, Clark didn’t take it personally. “Anyone saying that doesn’t know a thing about our relationship,” he said, politely but firmly. “They don’t know a thing about Bruce, and they don’t know a thing about me. I’m interested in a lot of things about Bruce. The fact that he was born into money doesn’t even factor into it.”

This was the answer he and Bruce had rehearsed, the one they’d fine-tuned and agreed upon, but in the moment, something prompted Clark to add, “I benefit from having Bruce in my life not because he’s rich but because he challenges me and makes me a better person.” In an interview of half-truths and lies of omission, it felt like the right thing to say, because it was completely, one-hundred-percent true.

“What do you like about Bruce? What drew you to him?”

Clark had also prepared an answer to this question with Bruce. Clark was supposed to say something about how they shared many of the same values and got along well with each other, and both of these things were true, but before Clark could give that answer, he paused. There were a lot of people in Clark’s life who shared his values and got along well with him, including many of his coworkers at the  _ Daily Planet _ and many of his fellow superheroes. Bruce was different.

Part of it was what Clark had told Bruce when they were rehearsing, about how Bruce’s trust felt like a rare and precious thing that Clark wasn’t sure how he’d earned but that he treasured nonetheless. But that was more about how Bruce felt about Clark. It was nice to be trusted, especially by someone who trusted so few people. But how did  _ Clark _ feel about  _ Bruce _ ?

It was the very question he’d been avoiding. How  _ did _ he feel about Bruce?

Gail cleared her throat and Clark realized several seconds had passed since she asked her question. Deciding to go completely off script, Clark said, “One of the first things that struck me about Bruce was how well we complement each other.” Clark thought about what a good team he and Bruce made, and had always made, even before they truly liked each other. They played to each other’s strengths and made up for each other’s weaknesses. They fit together seamlessly, worked together effortlessly. And they complemented each other intellectually, as well. “We don’t always agree, but he makes me see things in a different way, and I like to think I do the same for him.”

This was what had initially impressed Clark about Bruce – Batman, at the time – but it wasn’t the only thing that had elevated Batman from just another superhero Clark occasionally worked with to someone he trusted with his life, and with his secret identity. “Another thing that drew me to him was how much he really cares. About Gotham, about other people, about the people in his life especially.” Batman tried to hide how much he cared, thinking it was a weakness, but once Clark had discovered it, he’d seen Batman in a completely different light. “And it’s not performative in any way. Everything he does for people, he does because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, not because he thinks he’ll get anything out of it.”

Clark was caught up in memory now, tracing his relationship with Bruce from the very beginning to where they were now. Once he’d discovered how much Batman cared, Clark had also realized there was so much more to Batman than met the eye. This had intrigued Clark. Clark had always been too curious for his own good – it was what made him such a skilled investigative reporter – and it only made sense for him to be drawn to a man like Bruce, whose true personality was hidden away behind multiple masks, whose true feelings were walled off to keep himself safe, who was like a mystery Clark could only solve by carefully collecting all the clues. “He has so many layers,” Clark said, “And after knowing him for years now, I still don’t think I’ve learned everything about him.”

Continuing along his mental timeline of his and Bruce’s relationship, Clark had now reached the point where they’d revealed their secret identities to each other, and though he knew he hadn’t covered everything he felt for Bruce – there was so much more he hadn’t even touched on – this was where he stopped. Because he remembered, all too vividly, what his reaction had been to realizing Batman was Bruce Wayne.

His first thought after Bruce had taken off the cowl was something along the lines of,  _ Holy shit, he’s famous. _

After the initial shock settled in and Clark was able to fully take in Bruce’s face – sweaty from their mission, hair matted from the cowl, lip bleeding from taking a hit to the mouth – his second thought had been more along the lines of,  _ Oh no, he’s hot. _

Which brought Clark to the next thing he liked about Bruce, the truth he’d been avoiding over the course of their fake relationship and, honestly, even longer than that.

Taking Clark’s pause as her cue to ask the next question, Gail said, “What made you decide you wanted to enter a relationship with him?”

“The way I feel about him,” Clark said, the truth of it like a stone dropped into the pit of his stomach. He thought about the first time Batman had saved his life. He thought about seeing Batman take off the cowl for the first time. He thought about their first and second kiss in Bruce’s study. He thought about their kiss in the pool in Puerto Rico, waking up with Bruce wrapped around him. He thought about the heaviness he’d been carrying in his heart all along, pretending it didn’t mean anything. Everything clicked into place, and Clark didn’t like the picture it made. “The way he makes me feel. I can’t put it into words. When I’m with him, I feel like I’m more than I am without him. I don’t know if that makes any sense.”

The interview ended shortly thereafter, and Clark had to go back to work and ignore the weight of his newly acknowledged feelings.

Clark didn’t see Bruce in the days before the interview went up, thank God. He didn’t think he could handle being around Bruce before he had a chance to process this.

He did see Lois, though. They’d planned to have dinner together at her apartment, and it happened to be the same day Clark’s interview was published. Lois buzzed him into her building and greeted him at her front door, holding her laptop in one arm. She waved him into the kitchen, where a takeout bag waited for them on the counter. Of the two of them, Clark was the better chef, so dinner at Lois’ usually meant takeout.

“I read your interview,” Lois said, setting the laptop down and arranging little Chinese takeout containers on her small kitchen table.

“What did you think?” Clark asked. So they were going to have this conversation right away. Well, might as well rip the bandaid off. The sooner Clark told Lois the realization he’d come to while giving said interview, the sooner she could say “I told you so.” (And then, after that, actually comfort him.)

“You were amazing,” Lois said, pulling two ice-cold beers out of the fridge. “You almost had me convinced, and I’ve known all along this relationship with Bruce is fake.” Lois waved for Clark to sit down and she picked up her laptop again, scrolling through the interview. “Was it difficult?”

“Not really. I’d practiced with Bruce beforehand.”

“That’s good.” Lois scrolled to the end of the article and shook her head. “Seriously, though, some of this stuff is poetry. ‘When I’m with him, I feel like I’m more than I am without him’? Step aside, Stephanie Meyer.”

Clark sighed, cracking open his beer and idly wishing he was capable of getting drunk on it. “That part was actually the truth,” he admitted quietly. Lois looked up and frowned, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard him right, and Clark continued, “I do feel that way when I’m with Bruce. Almost every word I said in that interview was the truth.”

Lois’ frown deepened. “Except the parts about you having romantic feelings for him, right?”

Clark said nothing. Lois’ eyes widened.

“Clark. Don’t tell me you’re falling in love with your fake boyfriend.”

“Falling in love” felt like a strong way to put it, but Clark didn’t contradict her. “I only realized it when I was giving the interview,” he explained, “Although I think I’ve been feeling it for much longer than that. I just wasn’t willing to accept the truth.”

“You know what you have to do,” Lois said seriously, leaning forward across the table like the closeness might give her words greater impact. “You have to fake-break up with him.”

“I can’t,” Clark said.

“Yes you can. You told me part of you and Bruce’s agreement was that either of you could call off the relationship at any time.” Lois was in full-on “convince Clark he’s doing something stupid and needs to listen to me” mode. Although they frequently disagreed about what Clark should do – particularly with regards to him putting his life in jeopardy – she didn’t try too hard to convince him unless she  _ really _ meant it. And Clark knew she was right. He  _ should _ fake-break up with Bruce. But he’d made a commitment, and now was the worst possible time to back out.

“Staging the breakup now, after I just gave a heartfelt interview about how much I like him and how great our relationship is, would completely destroy the image we’ve been trying to create,” Clark countered. “It would have all been for nothing.”

“Clark, consider the alternative. Do you really want to stay in a fake relationship with someone you have real feelings for?”

“It won’t be for that much longer.”

“You were supposed to stay together for a year,” Lois said. “It’s only been six months. That means you’re only halfway through.”

“It doesn’t have to be a full year.” The important thing was that Clark allowed for enough time in between the interview and the breakup that it wouldn’t seem to the press like they were in love one moment and out of it the next. They were trying to make it seem like Bruce was good at commitment; that would send exactly the opposite message. “Three more months,” Clark offered as a compromise. “I’ll stick around for three more months, then I’ll call it off.”

Lois folded her arms. She clearly disagreed with Clark’s decision, but she also seemed to have accepted that there would be no changing his mind. “I can’t believe you,” she said.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Super Support Support Group Chat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160324) by [Ebonyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebonyheart/pseuds/Ebonyheart)




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